


Beast to Bate

by extradimensional



Series: Beast of a Burden [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Spoilers for The Calling (book)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extradimensional/pseuds/extradimensional
Summary: “He’s doing this out of spite, you know,” Alistair finally said through a clenched jaw. “When Kallian chose to support Anora instead of me, Eamon was dragging his feet until the crown was on her head. ‘And so the Theirin bloodline is dead.’ That’s what he said with me standing in front of him, as if my existence was suddenly void. Then again, it had been that way for twenty years prior, hadn’t it?”---In which Cullen and Alistair stubbornly fall in love, but fate hardly cares about love stories.
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Beast of a Burden [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722922
Comments: 18
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ANDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD WE'RE BACK. 

The candles, freshly lit, made the room glow in different shades of red, like a nightmare or a dream. Cullen wasn’t sure what had come over him, had even visibly made sure that a desire demon hadn’t manifested near the vicinity or that someone had drugged his drink. All he knew was that his eyes had been stuck on Alistair as soon as everyone sat down for supper. They weren’t flirting, no covert indiscretions took place, yet the littlest thing Alistair did made Cullen’s heart race.

The way his throat bobbed as he drank his wine, the way he tilted his head back as he laughed, the glint of a smile he’d throw at his audience. It was all too much for Cullen to handle. 

He had managed to hold himself together an appropriate amount of time before he made an exit, Alistair somehow sensing to follow soon after. His appearance made Cullen wonder if this was not a one way feeling, if it was possible to be so mutually attracted to someone, but it must have been so if it had led to all this. 

Cullen slammed the little trap door to his loft shut with his foot, his hands too busy getting Alistair out of his clothes to do it properly. 

“How drunk are you?” Alistair had laughed midway between the bed and the wall. 

“How much did you see me drink?” 

“None. Even you have a rather high tolerance for watered down wine.” 

Cullen didn’t respond right away, too distracted by kissing Alistair’s collar bone, biting enough to leave a mark but in a location where it could easily be hidden from sight. Alistair’s breath hitched as Cullen’s teeth grazed the skin. 

“Maker. You just—you looked too beautiful sitting there all night. I needed to get my hands on you,” Cullen sighed, his words gleaming against Alistair’s neck. 

“Who would have thought: Cullen Rutherford a romantic.” Alistair ran his fingers down Cullen’s chest, down towards his stomach. 

Maker, his hands are warm, Cullen thought to himself as the frenzy of lust tampered down just enough to take in exactly what was happening. He wanted this image imprinted on his mind. 

Alistair, looking at him like he was the sun.

Alistair, touching him, tracing the scar down his abdomen that was still too sensitive after all these years. 

Alistair, bloody dropping to his knees.

His eyes rolled back at the sight, at the feel. 

  
But he began paying for that excitement the next morning, when all the merry making was said and done. The thing that actually woke Cullen Rutherford from his sleep wasn’t the sun, but the weight distribution on the bed suddenly going uneven.

He groaned, gazing beneath his lashes as a sleepy Alistair got dressed. 

“Everything all right?” his voice was hoarse and rough, slipping onto his side in an attempt to steal some of the warmth back. 

“Fine,” Alistair replied, turning around once his mantle was in place and buttoned tightly at the neck. “I just have an early meeting with the Wardens and a possible lead. Josephine will be attending, which is the only reason I’m not fighting it, as she’ll likely feed me.” 

He slipped on his boots.

His nice ones, Cullen thought. When did he even bring them in here? 

Even in the tampered morning light and the last haze of sleep, Cullen could see that Alistair was pleasantly dressed in much more formal attire than average. His mantle was a light blue, embroidered with what looked like silver stars, perhaps even flowers. The sharp points that met the seams at the end made Cullen question where he got it, as it looked more like what the Elves used to wear back in the ancient times, when they did not dwell in the cities or migrate to and fro. 

He looked like a prince. A casual prince, one who was going to spend his day riding through the countryside, but a prince nonetheless. 

Before Cullen could get so much as a question out, he felt the brush of Alistair’s lips against his own before that warmth quickly faded away again. 

“You’re lucky I’m not limping,” Alistair said as a farewell, closing the hatch behind him. 

———————❖———————

He should have stayed in bed. Maker’s breath, getting up today was a terrible decision. 

If there was one thing that Cullen had underestimated about being Commander of the Inquisition, it was the sheer amount of paperwork he was expected to do daily. One would think he’d have people to do that for him, but each damn page of vellem was labeled as ‘too important’ or ‘extremely pressing’ to be passed down to one of his knights or pages. He had to see it now, even if now turned into a week and the letter was simply the supply list for training weapons or what color socks his soldiers would prefer. Paperwork was one concern as it made him want to bash his skull in with boredom. 

The other was that the room kept growing increasingly colder. 

It took a few hours, a few times of rekindling the fire and having multiple people come and go without making a comment for Cullen to realize it wasn’t the temperature of his office, but it was the temperature of his body. 

That was the first sign of it starting. A withdrawal episode. 

But it wasn’t so terrible right then; he could function. Cullen could finish his work before the worst of it got him and possibly be able to operate until morning. It was a small possibility, but if he could keep down enough water and get himself to sleep, it might happen. 

Swallowing thickly, Cullen grabbed the leather gloves that sat on the edge of his desk and pulled them on, and began walking towards the door leading to the battlements. As usual, someone stood guard near the entrance. On a normal day, Cullen would have his name and rank memorized, would remember the rotation of the guard, and be able to tell the exact time of the day just by looking briefly at the sky. Today, none of those things were happening. 

“You—” Oh, Cullen had always hated when his superiors referred to him like a stray animal rather than an actual person. 

The man looked up with a jerk. It was a boring position and on a personal level, Cullen would wish to do the same, but as a commander, he certainly could not let that pass muster. But along the way, he had magically gotten a reputation for being stern and respected, meaning all he generally had to do was give a hard glare and the fear of the Maker passed through whoever was at the receiving end of it. 

The same went for...Todd? Trever? Did it even start with a T? 

“—Let the Knight-Captains know that I will be missing inspection this afternoon. As well, I am not to be distrubed for the rest of the day unless the world catches on fire. Anything extremely pressing can be sent onto Lady Leliana. Make this known throughout the rest of the rotations.” 

“Yes, Commander!” The cadet ran off as though the gates of the Fade were about to crackle open beneath him. 

Cullen was nodding off in his chair again (something his back would hate him for as soon as he stood up) when a realization went through his bones like the vibrations of a death bell. Alistair. He hadn’t told Alistair any of this. It was doubtful that he would simply be okay with being denied access to Cullen’s chambers all of a sudden as he wasn’t one to take ‘no’ at face value. 

It was too late now. Walking further than to his bed wasn’t going to happen tonight and neither was going to the door. Instead Cullen did the only thing he could do: let his concern be eaten alive by his cravings. 

———————❖———————

“—Cullen!” Hands shook him roughly, enough to drag him from under the quilted fog of sleep that pulled him down by both feet. He was still in his uncomfortable chair but now an Alistair was in front of him. 

“How’d you get in?” Cullen asked, his words seeming to lack spaces.

“As if your little guard duty will actually turn me away. I just told them the Inquisitor sent me and they folded immediately. I hope they’re trained better to withstand torture.”

Cullen made a sound of agreement. “Not as well as we were, but I’m not quite that evil.” 

“That’s good,” Alistair smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

Cullen became aware of the fact that he felt warmer now, his fingers touching a soft blanket that had been thrown over him. He suddenly realized he had no idea how long Alistair had been here for, watching him sleep. The mere idea should make him uncomfortable but it didn’t. 

“So, are you ill? Or is it…” 

“Lyrium. You can say the word, Alistair.” 

Alistair nodded once, but it didn’t look convincing. “I really want to be angry at you right now for not getting in touch with me. But you look plenty miserable enough.”

“Use to it. Dealing with it myself. And this one wasn’t going to be so terrible. I can usually tell.” 

“If this isn’t ‘terrible’, what do the bad ones look like?” 

“Can’t walk, can barely stay conscious, never mind hold a conversation. I vomit. Heat doesn’t exist. And I get that taste at the back of my throat. It’s so close to being like lyirum but there’s a metallic tang ruining it.” Cullen hesitated, trying to read Alistair’s expression. He’s not sure when Alistair got so good at hiding his emotions. 

“Did you ever try it?” Cullen asked.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Once. It must have been a week before Duncan showed up. Marcellus knew I was worried about my vows, so I suppose he assumed that letting me taste lyrium would excite me? Make me feel less nervous? Get me addicted to the taste?” 

“And did you like it?”

“No. I gagged on the first sip.” 

“I’m glad,” Cullen tried to smile, but his jaw felt too tense. He wondered what time it was as his eyes scraped over Alistair’s form. He was wearing just a tunic and trousers now but they were still a bit out of his normal fashion realm. 

“Why are you all dressed up?” 

Alistair made a face, scrunching his nose and his eyes. “Oh, where to begin. Orlais, a magistrate from the Tevinter Imperium, and the Grey Wardens all walk into a tavern…” 

“What?” Cullen sat up, pushing the blanket down to his waist. The story was troublesome enough for Alistair to get up from his kneeled position and take to pacing a hole in the floor. 

“Orlais is having some sort of darkspawn outbreak. Not the Blight, mind you, but if you’re really interested in that part, I have a briefing the size of a dictionary in my bag. The point being, you know that teeny tiny spot where they share a border with the Imperium? It’s happening right there. So they’re blaming each other and Orlais is crying blood magic. Of course, the Inquisition gets involved as what should be a neutral party, even though I said it was a terrible idea, so now everyone is calling something that is absolutely not a Blight, a Blight. And even though Orlais has its own Grey Wardens, the Imperium found out that I am a bastard of the Old King and demanded my men investigate. I’m assuming in an attempt to drag Ferelden into it. All over maybe…5 small villages.”

Cullen tried to take all the information in, part of him a bit peeved that he wasn’t involved in this. He was Commander after all. This was something he could actually offer advice on. But it likely wasn’t Alistair’s choice to begin with and the other looked annoyed enough. “What did Dorian say about this?”   
  
“Cullen,” Alistair collapsed onto the bed. “Do we have to worry about this now? Likely nothing is going to happen. You’re ill. Bite back that military drive of yours for the night.”

He wasn’t ill, Cullen wanted to argue. And he wasn’t useless. Even though he knew those weren’t the words Alistair had used and certainly were not the intended ones for inbetween the lines. It occurred to him that perhaps Alistair didn’t wish to speak of it. That it was an aggravated wound that had had its attention and now needed to be left alone.

Cullen stood and shuffled over to his side of the bed, relieved that his legs worked without too much pain and his balance had come back. It was a good sign. 

“Do you need anything?” Alistair asked once Cullen lied down next to him, even though he still had his boots on and looked as ready to fall asleep as Cullen did. 

“I’m already much improved. You shouldn’t sleep in those clothes, you know. You’ll crease them and we both know the likelihood of you getting anything steamed.” 

“I’ll get in trouble if I don’t. It was part of the Arl’s ‘sorry I outed your lineage to all of Thedas’ present. Though I think it was back handed as he knew things like today would happen and I’d have to be a representative. He should have gotten me some socks instead.” 

Cullen hummed in reply, his mind stuck on the Arl’s mage son. He knew the boy had survived his Harrowing somehow, which was surprising, all things considered. He couldn’t imagine what that must be like for a man in a position of power, to have his son taken away. From what Alistair told him, the Arl didn’t seem very peaved about it at the time. 

“We’re going to talk about this in the morning,” Alistair said, ripping Cullen from his macabre thoughts. “There is no need for you to suffer alone.” 

Cullen wanted to argue that there was every need but his strength waned again. Instead he feigned sleep, hoping to come up with a valid argument for such by day break.

———————❖———————

Morning came and went, but unlike yesterday, Alistair didn’t wake up before him.

Cullen sat up in bed, his head still aching, his hands stiff, but everything was usable. He wouldn’t have to be bed bound for the day. Relief flooded him.

His gaze turned over to the occupant on the other side of his bed, curled up like a child who had been too tired to undress for sleep. Alistair worried him for various reasons, some worth dwelling on, others plain ridiculous. Over the last two months, since the night they had first kissed, the two of them had progressively gotten closer. It was to be expected. But it made Cullen’s chest ache. 

He hadn’t had anyone he cared about this much physically with him in a long time. His family were safe in their mundane lives and though he worried for them, his actions here were helping to keep them safe. Alistair on the other hand...Alistair would forever be in the same level of danger, sucked to Cullen's often perilous and damning plans. There was no sticking him in the countryside or kissing him goodbye while Cullen marched off to war. No, Alistair was his equal. Whatever danger he faced, Alistair would face the same. 

That alone was terrifying. 

He had never in his wildest dreams thought he’d fall for someone in general, never mind another warrior. In the end, would they watch each other get slaughtered? Or would the poisons that swam in their blood do that first? 

Cullen watched Alistair slowly wake up, his brown eyes meeting Cullen’s as soon as they opened.

“Is there a chance you still might be made king?” The filter that would usually hold back such questions was drained away with the remanence of the withdrawal. 

He thought Alistair would be surprised at the question, but he hadn’t even lifted his head off the pillow. “I abdicated, but Anora has no children nor any interest in getting remarried. Nothing was ever written down or signed so I suppose I am still in the line of succession, if that’s what you mean.”

“And what of Redcliffe? When the Arl dies? Mages forfeit all titles and lands and his brother has no male heirs.” 

Silence met all those questions, so Cullen continued to push.“When you were placed into the Chantry, was it before or after Arl Eamon’s son was born?”

Alistair curled back into himself, his hand tugging on the pendant that set against his chest. That was answer enough. 

“Why are you doing this now, Cullen? Did you decide to lash out at me before I could question you about last night?” His voice was low, tempered in volume and very clearly not about to engage in a brawl of words. 

“I am trying to figure out what this is. Especially if you plan on becoming an Arl.”

“If, if if. Why talk in hypotheticals? And it’s certainly not my plan. I’m not even in Eamon’s bloodline.” Alistair sat up, his eyes darting between Cullen and the door, like he couldn’t decide if it was better to leave before Cullen finished ripping everything to shreds. 

“There is no point in any of this if—” 

Mind apparently made up, Alistair stood and held up his hand. Cullen felt the sentence cling to his mouth, burn his tongue, make him want to gag. 

“We’re not having this conversation when you’re obviously agitated and I’m certainly not going to get lectured on something you know nothing about. Come find me once you’re yourself again.” 

Cullen watched in complete silence as Alistair made his way down the ladder and out the door. 

He hadn’t expected to pick a fight to begin with, that had just happened, but once it did he certainly hadn’t thought Alistair would just leave without engaging at all. The Alistair he had known would have fought back and ended up agreeing, blaming himself, and sulking in it. 

The fact that Cullen knew the supposed outcome and did it anyway was the most terrifying part. The fact that Alistair had grown so much was terrifying in equal measure. 

Unsure of what to do since all his work for the day before was still being rerouted, Cullen penned a letter to his sister. Usually his letters were blunt and rather boring as he really had nothing appropriate to say, even if Mia’s replies were pages long and full of details of mundane things. 

Before he could even overthink it, Cullen gushed his thoughts all over the page and one would hardly know it was a letter other than the ‘Dear Mia,’ at the top. He didn’t sign it, he didn’t need to. In truth, he must have blanked out even handing it off to be sent because suddenly it wasn’t in his hand anymore. In fact, he could see the runner making his way towards the post. 

There was one positive to it all: at least he could obsess over Mia’s reaction and imminent reply rather than Alistair’s.


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen shouldn’t have, but he made his way down the battlements through the chilled air. Another day would have been best before throwing himself back into work but, Andraste help him, he couldn’t spend another minute trapped up in his tower with his thoughts. 

Judging by one of his captain’s looks, perhaps Cullen wasn’t coming off quite as stoic as he had hoped. 

He watched and corrected the training of some recruits before watching a few drills be run through with the archers. Once he was satisfied, Cullen attempted to look casual and at ease as he ever was before voicing a question. 

“The Warden-Commander, have either of you seen him today?” 

Both captains looked at each other before one of them answered. “Yes, ser. He was here earlier but then a messenger came for him from the Inquisitor. He hasn’t come back since.” 

Nor would he, Cullen thought. Not if I might be here.

———————❖———————

Cullen paced around the castle after that, staying out of anywhere that he may run into Alistair. He was going to go to the library, but Dorian had grown close to Alistair over the weeks, so there was a chance he may be there. He debated going to visit Leliana and see if there were any important correspondences from yesterday, but that too was blocked by a currently hidden Warden shaped obstacle. 

Cullen could only take a guess what the appropriate amount of separation was supposed to be given in domestic disputes, but seeing that it was entirely his fault they were like this in the first place, it made the Commander all the more twitchy. 

The courtyard seemed safe. It was too close to the Chapel for Alistair to come often as he still had a mixed relationship with faith. 

An odd sort of relief came upon Cullen as he saw Dorian sitting at a chessboard by himself, one leg crossed over the other as he stared intently at the pieces. Cullen wanted to speak to him, to anyone really, but didn’t want to intrude. So he slowed his pace instead, hoping to catch the mage’s eye as a mere coincidence. It was on the 3rd lap, just before he was about to give up and head back to his office, that Dorian finally spoke up. 

“If you wish to speak to me, Commander, you don’t have to attempt to be casual until I call for your attention. As kind as you are.”

Cullen blushed, feeling it spread down his face and chest. 

“I’m glad you chose military work over operative. You’d be a terrible spy.” 

Cullen cut across the grass then, a little faster than he would have liked. “So I’ve been told,” he replied, eyeing the empty chair until Dorian motioned him to sit down. 

“I’d ask you if you wished to play but I’m assuming your mind is a bit out of focus given the visit I just had with your boyfriend.” 

“My boyfriend. Alistair is not my boyfriend,” he argued, though he wasn’t sure why. 

“Mmm. Yet, if it was a woman you were seeing, by two months everyone would assume you were courting her. I’ve known couples who have gotten married in less time.”

Maker, Dorian was right. He hated that Dorian was right. 

“I doubt it matters what label you wish to slap on it, Alistair is no doubt done with me.”

He felt Dorian’s gaze fall hard on him and when he looked up, Cullen couldn’t decipher if it was a stare of pity, confusion, or contempt. “Cullen, you had one spat. That doesn’t equate to breaking up, even to me. Even if you were a complete arse.”

Cullen folded his arms onto the table and cocooned his head inside with a loud groan. “I am such an arse. Do you know where he went?” He lifted his head just enough to see Dorian shake his.

“He was talking to the Inquisitor for a while and then came to find me. He looked faint so I dragged him to get something to eat and he divulged most of his dealings. Then he was in a rush and left again.” 

“Why was he with the Inquisitor? It doesn’t have to do with yesterday, does it?” Cullen asked.

“Partly, I think. Though that seems to have landed in a parley and has fallen into my lap. When I asked for more detail, all Alistair did was mumble about you being right,” Dorian sighed, inspecting one of his chest pieces. 

Cullen froze and debated running to the Chapel to pray that his assumptions were wrong.“I could be right, but I am not psychic. That timing would be too incredible. That is, if we’re even talking about the same thing. But unfortunately, I think we are.” 

“Would it? I think you were less predicting the future and more so subconsciously finding the clues.” Dorian raised a brow. “This whole fake blight business being dragged to Alistair’s front door is far too convenient. Perhaps they would have taken it straight to the Inquisitor and then directly to you, but surely not to Alistair without being prompted. A fantastic little diplomatic test though.” 

“Meaning?” 

“Even if Alistair is not king, even if he never will be, do you not see the benefits to the whole of the aristocracy? A Grey Warden in the royal family is one thing, but one that is now in the Inquisition as well…”

“A benefit and a threat,” Cullen pointed out. 

Alistair being a national hero nearly two times over. Having the hypothetical ear of both the Hero and the Herald. That person could overthrow a ruler they didn’t like. Or that person could bring esteem to a rocky establishment. Cullen wondered for a moment just how pathetically weak Alistair’s ‘abdication’ really was.

“Would he have passed?” 

Dorian shrugged but Cullen could tell he was just as concerned. Cullen had grown up on a farm and had been milking cows since he could walk. Politics, he had experience with from adulthood, but in neither of those lives had he had to deal with royalty very often. 

“From what Alistair told me, he told them to leave and deal with it themselves. Gather their own Wardens else they have the Inquisition on their steps. He kept your country well out of it. That, to me, would be passing. Yes. But alas, Tenvinter tends to solve their political issues with assassinations or well timed ‘hunting accidents,’ so it is not my exact area of expertise.” 

He wondered if Alistair had put this together yet, if that was the reason he had walked out instead of fighting with Cullen, because Cullen had been right. Or right to an extent at least. There were so many unknown factors to this that he felt as though he was committing treason just thinking about them. Did someone want to overthrow Queen Anora? Did she suddenly regret not marrying Alistair? Maker, he wasn’t sure Ferelden could handle a situation like Celene and Gaspard’s spat. “Will they let him say no this time?” Cullen asked.

“Saying no to a position is one thing, saying no to something that is fundamentally yours due to blood, that’s true even if you want it or not? Well, Cullen, that is quite another. It all depends on what they’re offering and who is offering it.”

Cullen stood up, ignoring the pang in his head that had suddenly come back. 

“I need to find him. I mean—it’s not too early to apologize, is it? Should I give him more space?” 

“No, Cullen. That’s the last thing you should do. Truly, it worries me if this is the communication level one gets when they’re raised in an abbey.” Pushing himself up from his seat, Dorian beat Cullen with his exit, muttering something under his breath akin to “See, this is why I hate the Chantry” as he went.

Cullen guessed that he wasn’t supposed to have heard it, but for some odd reason it brought a sad smile to his face. The older he got, the more he felt that way sometimes. Two grown men who had killed and almost been killed, protected from nearly everything but death. It was wrong. And for the first time, Cullen reflected on what he was to do if he ever had a child who wanted to be a Templar. 

He imagined a little boy with red hair, chin jutting out in an attempt to look mature, telling Cullen that he wished to join the Chantry on his 10th birthday. Even the dream of it made him want to yell. How had his own parents done it? Cullen knew they hadn’t wanted to, that they had been against it from the start, had even made him wait 3 extra years to make sure it wasn’t just a passing fancy. 

Not for the first time, Cullen thought of his Father’s face as he said goodbye to his parents at the abbey door. There wasn’t pride there. He looked at his eldest son as if given the news he had just died, as if he was viewing the fresh corpse of his child. But Cullen hadn’t seen that at such a young age. He thought his mother cried because her child was growing up (in fact, that’s what she had told him) not because of what horrors he was going to see or that he was likely to die before he turned 20. 

He could have been a farmer, well off and safe. Marriage, he couldn’t see in that realm of the future, because right now he couldn’t imagine falling asleep in the arms of someone soft, curved and not Alistair shaped. But the rest he could: waking up at dawn to feed the animals, having a dog or two, visiting his nieces and nephews. Rosalie might still live with him as she was only 19 or 20 herself now. Every suitor would be scared away by her older brother who was quite good with a sword. 

Even if fighting was so ingrained that Cullen couldn’t deny its call, he could have trained to become a knight at Redcliffe castle. Either future would have been good. Either one could have led to Alistair anyway. Just thinking about the possibilities made him realize that the answer would be a harsh ‘no’ to any child, any relative of his going into the Templars if he could help it. They could do good as a collective, but they did terrible things to the individual. 

Once again, he prayed to Andraste quietly under his breath, thankful that Alistair had escaped that fate. 

His fate now though? Cullen wasn’t sure he would be so lucky. 

———————❖———————

Night fell quickly and the air turned colder. Cullen walked into the Herald’s Rest as a last resort. If Alistair wasn’t there, then he could ask Bull. Bull knew where everyone was. 

His eyes searched over the small crowd to find a hunched over Alistair at a table, listening to the bard with an intense concentration that was almost eerie, a drink in his hand. He didn’t react at all once he noticed Cullen taking a seat next to him, still hooked on every word coming from the singer’s mouth. He didn’t ask what Alistair was doing, instead he just observed. 

His eyes narrowed, and sometimes he’d mouth the last words that the bard had just repeated. By the end of the song, said bard had obviously noticed, as he squirmed his way out of the area and heartily ended his session for the night. “I’m trying to hear Andraste’s voice.” Alistair turned towards Cullen then, but his eyes were unfocused and staring at something Cullen couldn’t see. “Some people say they hear it through music, no? Because I don’t hear it anymore. I’m not sure I ever did. Maybe I should try the Elvish gods.” 

Cullen slowly placed his hand over Alistair’s half-opened fist, tucking into his own. Alistair didn’t pull away from his hold. 

“I received a letter from the Arl. Sent to the Inquisitor for me. I’ve been called to Redcliffe a few weeks from now. Nicely ordered, might be a better way to phrase it.”

“Do you know why?”

Alistair shook his head. “I have guesses, but they’re vague at best. Did you know last night?” 

Cullen knew that given the chance, those brown eyes looking back at his own would harden and grow cross and any trust utterly shattered. He didn’t let that happen and responded quickly. 

“No, of course not. If I had, I wouldn't have dreamt of keeping it from you. I was just—Alistair, I was being a complete arse to you. I didn’t feel well, I was overtired, and I’m not used to people caring so openly. I lashed out and I was wrong for it. What we have, it scares me. I’ve never felt like this for another soul, so my first instinct is to, of course, try to destroy it. I don’t know what to do with another person’s love.” 

“You love them back. It doesn’t have to be complicated.” 

“Right now,” Cullen said. “It feels the most complicated thing in all the world.”

———————❖———————

  
_Dear Baby Brother,_

_Your letter was surprising, likely not for the reasons you think. I’m just amazed you know how to write more than 5 sentences! You should have seen the look on my face when it arrived, to see that it was pages long._

_Alright, I will stop teasing you now. I have a few years to make up for taunting you, you understand._

_Regarding the contents, I cannot say that I am in shock. Quite honestly, I’ve known for quite some time that you fancied more than women. I would think that, as you grew older, this would continue. Little brother, I urge you to remember that real life is not the Chantry and you will not get smited for sleeping with a man. This country is what some would call ‘backwards’ in many ways, but not so in that fashion._

_When it comes to relationships, I will offer you the advice of sitting silently for a full minute before opening your mouth. My husband is gone often, as merchants generally are, and it is tempting to build up all the anger for the things he is not there for and explode once he returns. But Cullen, it truly is a massive waste of time._

_Just like it is a waste of time trying to convince yourself that you are not deeply in love with your Warden. Stop being stubborn. We both know that once you set your mind to something, it is nearly impossible to change it and if your heart has decided before your head, so be it._

  
_I best be off, as I think I can hear the boys trying to convince Sophie to ride one of the goats._

_All my love,_

_Mia._

———————❖———————

“Well,” Alistair looked up from his bed, a grin plastered to his face. “It seems I have the Mia seal of approval. When’s the wedding?” 

Cullen nudged him with his elbow and took the letter back, folding it and hiding it in his coat pocket. It had been snowing all day, long and hard, and Cullen was wondering how exactly anyone was planning on going to and fro from Skyhold. 

Alistair leaving for Redcliffe wasn’t something that was discussed, a decision sharply decided by Alistair himself. Cullen didn’t push but the fear of him not coming back was one that sat in Cullen’s stomach like a rock. The Maker must have thought so too as it had snowed and snowed since then. Traveling would be ridiculous until it lightened up, if it lightened up at all. 

The weather was indeed so bad that nearly everyone was given the day to relax. Cullen didn’t think this applied to the inner circle, but Alistair decided he wasn’t going to ask, instead dragging Cullen back to his room where people were less likely to barge in and out constantly. 

Alistair’s space was quite bare. The furnishings it came with were there, unmoved or rearranged, the dark brick walls void of anything extraordinary, but small details showed that it was Alistair’s. There were plenty of books cluttered around in various places, not rivaling the amount Cullen had but enough to know that either Alistair loved to read or was an insomniac. Perhaps both. His official Grey Warden armor was hung up properly, shining and maintained in the corner, lest he need it in a hurry, and his normal brown leather outfit sat partially folded on a chair, partially still on its owner. 

In an attempt to enjoy the day, dragging Cullen to hide had turned into cuddling in Alistair’s bed with the fire blazing, both of them wrapped up tightly together to the point where Cullen wasn’t sure where one of them started and the other ended. 

Alistair was still clearly in no hurry, bare chested and lounging on his mound of pillows. He looked like a painting, one that Cullen would like to hang right in front of his own bed so he could fall asleep and start every day by looking at it, admiring every detail. 

“Won’t you come back to bed? There’s nothing to do and I know your fingers are getting cold again.” 

Maker, it was tempting. Too tempting. Cullen’s eyes looked towards the door and then back to the bed before removing his coat once more and jumping into it, making Alistair bounce in turn. With the laugh that came from Alistair’s belly, Cullen felt like they were boys again, breaking curfew for no reason other than they could. 

That was when the words slipped out of Cullen’s mouth: “Maker’s breath, I love you.”

Alistair, for his part, didn’t look surprised or taken aback. Instead he just smiled again, softly. “I love you too.” 

It was so simple and painless, yet so true. It threatened to bubble out of Cullen’s chest, but he couldn’t find the strength to care. He loved Alistair. When it had happened, he couldn’t say, but it made no difference because Alistair loved Cullen back. 

The kiss Alistair started then was nothing like their first; it was slow, easy, and generous like they had all the time in Thedas. They didn’t have to prove their love, they knew it like it was well worn. 

Cullen decided then, as Alistair pressed him against the bed, that he would protect it with his life. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters that I struggled with. I wrote it months ago, tried to rework it, but I think I've reach the point where I've read it faarrr too many times to actually comprehend any of the words.
> 
> TW: There is the mention of suicide in this chapter. Pretty small, but still there.

They didn’t let the runner in who knocked on the door hours later. Neither of them even made the move to get up. That would involve putting on, at a very bare minimum, pants and doing so seemed of dire consequence.

“What is it?” Alistair asked from the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around Cullen’s chest.

“Um. The Inquisitor, ser. She would like to speak to you and the Commander when you get the chance. If the Commander is in there. With you. She said he would be,” the poor voice rattled through. Truly, the Inquisitor could be wicked when she wanted.

She was also probably bored and trying to get every little tidbit of work out of the way.

“Very well. Tell her we’ll be there shortly.

———————❖———————

“Let’s get this out of the way, shall we?” the Inquisitor said before they even made it fully through the door of her office. She was lounging against the middle edge of her desk, arms crossed. “I think you know what I’m going to say, Alistair. So I think we both know you won’t like it.”

Cullen looked between the two of them. The Inquisitor was not an easy person to get along with, but she showed in her own ways that she cared. The current manner in wish she was acting now: not exactly making eye contact, not sitting at her desk, the tone of her voice. It showed that in this instance she cared quite a bit—about what, was up for debate.

“Just say it.” 

She sighed. “Your delay to Redcliffe has been noted and unliked by certain parties.”

Alistair pointed to a window. “Have they looked outside? My horse wouldn’t make it down the mountain pass, never mind Redcliffe.”

“Yes, I know that. Cullen knows that. Normal people know that. The aristocracy apparently does not,” the Inquisitor said with a shrug.

Usually, Lavellan would fight with Alistair about taking a seat and, in turn, she’d usually be the one that gave up. But on this miraculous occasion, Alistair dropped into a chair of his own accord, as if his feet could no longer carry him.

“What do they want of me, Lavellan?”

“I’m not exactly sure. But I’ll help you anyway I can, Alistair. In order to do that, we need to know what cards we are being dealt.” Her eyes locked with Cullen’s and he could feel the worry there. Alistair was not unbreakable and there had been enough in his rather short life to snap him.

“And that knowledge can only be gained at Redcliffe,” Cullen said, gaze unbreaking with the Inquisitor. He hoped his own voice sounded strong, like the one he used before battle, before sending good men to their deaths.

“But I don’t want to go,” Alistair whined. He was overtired and overwrought, that much was obvious.

“And I didn’t wish to become the harbinger of a god I don’t worship, but here we all are.”

Cullen rolled his shoulders back, preparing himself. Maybe a week or two ago, he would have lied and said he wasn’t part of this fight, but after what had transpired today it became clear that he suddenly very much was. “What if I accompanied him?”

Alistair’s head whipped around so fast that Cullen feared he’d pull something.

The idea had been in his mind since the Arl’s first demand but he didn’t wish to overstep. But standing there in the grey of the afternoon light, it was becoming glaringly obvious that this would affect Alistair more than he previously thought, perhaps more than even Alistair knew.

“You’d do that?” he asked, a mask of fear weighing down his features. Here was a man that had faced countless foes, disemboweled darkspawn, and killed dragons, and yet Cullen had never seen him so frightened.

“Yes. I don’t believe it would raise any eyebrows. You wouldn’t travel all that way by yourself, and I am technically a representative of the Inquisition.”

“And the fact that you’re from there, Commander. Let us not forget the most obvious reason. It looks more strange that you haven’t visited already.” The Inquisitor smiled, fully well knowing she was hitting a sore spot with a sharp arrow.

“Please take as little of offense as possible, your worship. But last time I heard, you haven’t visited your people either. Besides, none of my family resides there still.”

“Yes well,” she waved him off with her hand. “The Dalish are nomadic and are likely not happy to see me, where your people tend to stay in the same place they are born until they die. You and our warden are quite the anomaly.”

Cullen waited for Alistair to reply with some witty commentary, but it never came. Instead, he sat there with his hands neatly in his lap, head down as if lost in thought.

Cullen was quite sure that he was about to explode.

“He’s doing this out of spite, you know,” Alistair finally said through a clenched jaw. “When  Kallian chose to support Anora instead of me, Eamon was dragging his feet until the crown was on her head. _‘_ _And so the Theirin bloodline is dead._ _’_ That’s what he said, with me standing in front of him, as if my existence was suddenly void. Then again, it had been that way for twenty years prior, hadn’t it?” He snorted. “If this is some twisted way to avenge my Father, to make me marry, to keep my family noble, I’m going to—”

Cullen cut him off, placing both hands onto his lover’s shoulders. There were no words of comfort to offer in a blind situation. Being a farmer’s son, he may have had limited dealings with slights of the upper classes, but if there was one thing the Commander was good at, it was planning for a battle. “ I doubt Eamon will even be there, given he's retired to the  Capital. What are we thinking the outcome of this may be? What is the goal? Surely Leliana has put some feelers out by now.”

Lavellan shrugged. “If she has, she’s kept quiet on her findings. Josie has kept her ear to the ground as well, but everyone is very tight lipped about anything being wrong. Which is rather refreshing, to be honest.”

Alistair didn’t break his intense gaze with the floor, looking as though he was about to fight it or ask it to slit his throat. “Yes well, the Guerrins are involved. They have a certain knack for keeping things quiet until it’s convenient for them.”

“Do you not consider them family in some warped way?” Cullen asked. He had never gotten the full story of Alistair’s childhood, and wasn’t sure he could stomach it if he did. Something told him that it wasn’t very happy, perhaps even the antithesis of his own youth.

“I do, I suppose. My sort of uncles. That doesn’t say much though, considering my family history and our actual relation. Lavellan, you must find family drama to be exceedingly stupid.”

“Oh, yes, I absolutely do. The concept of a bastard at all is, well, as you so eloquently put it ‘exceedingly stupid.’ You have the same amount of your father’s blood as your brother, so why would you be frowned upon while he’s adored? From my extremely brief overview of Ferelden history, wasn’t the Queen long dead by the time you were born anyway? It makes no sense and I almost wish to follow along to Redcliffe just to have the Arl explain this to me.”

Alistair snorted. “By all means.”

———————❖———————

They left the Inquisitor's office in a silence Cullen couldn’t stand. He placed his hand on the small of Alistair’s back as they walked through the crowds, everyone luckily too preoccupied to pay them much mind or stop them for conversation.

“What do you need?” he whispered near Alistair’s ear. He had his own opinions, his urge to mother hen and protect picking its way to the surface, but he wasn’t in Alistair’s mind.

“I can’t be in here. It’s too much.” Instead of going to his room, Alistair suddenly veered left, quickly making his way to the first door leading outside, running through the doorway once they reached it, and finally collapsing knees and face first in the fluffy snow.

Cullen stood behind him, watching Alistair’s shallow breaths become puffs of smoke.

“Do you think I’d be dead if I had become a Templar?”

Cullen’s forehead knotted in confusion. “What are you...”

“Do you think I would have been killed by now?”

Cullen hesitated. It was a question he had reflected on before, many times throughout the years. Any time he was assigned to be the slayer at a Harrowing, anytime someone was made Tranquil, anytime they were told to shoot lyrium directly into their veins instead of ingesting it, Cullen would think of Alistair. Of what he would do. “Been killed? No. You’re too good of a fighter. Died? Yes. Maybe. You cannot steel your heart or see people as things and that...that is a blessing, a gift. For that is all the Templar Order does and it has taken far too long for me to admit that.”

“So you’re saying that I would have likely killed myself,” Alistair laughed, but it was cold and devoid of any joy. It was self deprecating. Cullen could see it so clearly: Alistair putting a knife through his own chest instead of across the throat of someone who didn’t deserve it.

He watched as Alistair fell onto his side, his chest heaving in the cold as his head rested in the snow. But his eyes were on Cullen’s. Perhaps they were frozen there. “How did you do it? How did you manage to do what they ordered you to do?”

“I stopped thinking for myself and just obeyed. I let myself be convinced that one group of beings was more evil than the other. That an eye for an eye is better executed preemptively, before the first person even strikes. Eventually I saw the corruption for what it was and Maker, did I hate myself.”

“But you’ve stopped.”

Cullen nodded, running a hand through his now damp hair. The snow was falling harder as the hours passed. “To a point. I realized hating myself doesn’t bring anyone I killed back. It doesn’t help anyone, in fact. It’s still there, it still bubbles up, but I try my best to...I suppose redirect it. I like to tell myself that those terrible things that happened had to in order to get here. In order to get to the things that aren’t so terrible.” He moved over and offered his hand. Alistair took it with some hesitation before using the weight to pull himself up.

“I don’t want to go back there,” he said, looking at Skyhold. It looked ominous against the harsh grey sky.

“You’re freezing. You’ll get ill if we don’t get you out of those wet clothes.”

Alistair hummed, rather not minding that idea.

“We’ll go back to your room, bathe, and plan. How does that sound?” Cullen asked.

“It sounds like I don’t have to make a decision. So, it’s perfect.”

———————❖———————

It took an unreasonable amount of time to make it to Redcliffe. The snow had thinned out as they went along, but Ferelden was a cold place no matter where one went.

The weather was a bit of a blessing though, Cullen realized as they rode up the idiotically steep hill to the castle. It meant that they had very little attention thrusted upon them from the locals. It also covered everything in a blanket of white, keeping Cullen from reflecting on what he should have thought of as home. Through the haze of flurries, he couldn’t see what had changed nor what hadn’t.

Alistair looked grim as he jumped off his horse, his boots crunching on the ground. No matter how much Josie had pestered him to do otherwise, he had ridden in wearing his Grey Warden armor, the silver griffon stamped directly on the middle of his chest. To Cullen, it seemed politically savvy and a statement all in one: no one could forget what Alistair had been all these years, where he had been, and what he’d been doing. He wasn’t prancing around Thedas as a spoiled royal brat, but saving lives on constant repeat. And with Cullen at his side, it looked as though both men were passing through and that it was a half thought of honor for Alistair to stop by.

Hidden by the horses, Cullen took a moment to pull Alistair close and kiss him. “I’m proud of you. No matter what happens,” Cullen said, moving away just as two guards came to escort them through the castle. Alistair hardened himself, but Cullen could almost hear the thoughts ringing through his head as if it vibrated between the two of them:

_Stupid guards. Why would I need not one, but two people to lead me through this place as if I’ve never been here? I know this castle better than they do. Do you know how many times I managed to go missing for hours? Someone even accused me of being a mage once._

The corner of Cullen’s lip rose just a little at the thought.

The halls were mostly empty, other than the few servants going to and fro. A few of them stopped and bowed their heads, one or two gawked. No doubt everyone would know they were here by sundown.

As they approached the throne room, Cullen made to drop back and walk behind, but Alistair caught his wrist at the last second. “Beside me, please. We’re equals. We’re both Commanders. Neither of us have been told otherwise.”

Cullen nodded, quickly becoming distracted by the quaint hall they walked into. He had never been inside before and his inner child was completely screaming. He bit back rolling his eyes at his own excitement, partly because no doubt someone would see and think him insane. Cullen had been inside various castles and palaces by this point, had even met the Empress, and an Alrdom was what he chose to geek out over.

Oddly enough, the Arl wasn’t sitting. He instead was lounging against his chair, absentmindedly chatting to one of his knights until his eyes got bright as he spotted Alistair.

Alistair, for all his nerves, read the room spot on and didn’t make to bow. Instead he was graciously pulled into a hug.

Hearing that Alistair had grown up here and seeing it were two very different things, Cullen discovered. For all the time he knew Alistair, they both had shared a tiny little room at the monastery, both had gotten punished the same way when breaking the rules, and both were allowed to have the same belongings as all the other devotees. Now, seeing how much the Arl, someone Cullen had only ever seen in passing and from far away, obviously caring from Alistair…

Cullen wondered how the Guerrins had ever let Alistair go in the first place.

“Teagan, this is my dear friend: Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition. He was kind enough to accompany me to make sure my arse didn’t get lost in the snow.”

Though he should be, Cullen is not prepared for when the Arl’s sights set straight on him. Teagan was an older man, but he hardly looked frail or elderly. The way he held his body made Cullen think that he could probably still hold his own in battle, and the glint of humor in his eye was surprising given the more recent events that had happened here, not to mention the few snarky invoices he had personally sent to the Inquisition. Still, it was hard to bite down the hero worship that Cullen once held for the Arl of Redcliffe. Teagan had been _the_ knight that all the young ones had looked up to, had heard tales about, and that was hard to shake even after all these years.

“Rutherford—” Arl Teagan chewed over Cullen’s surname as if trying to name the flavors in a good whiskey. “Yes, I’ve heard very good things about you as you’ve gone through the ranks. A Knight-Commander before 30 is no small feat. Welcome home.”

 _It isn’t much of one when you get it just because your old leader was incredibly corrupt and everyone else who could take it was dead,_ Cullen thought. Externally, he bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Your father owned a farm, yes? The one far back behind the lake, if I remember correctly. He was the only one who managed to grow those delicious Free Marches apples somehow, even though every drop of that man’s blood was Ferelden through and through. Oh, he got such shite for it out of pure jealousy.”

He tried to keep the surprise off his face at that mention, even harder to keep the sadness in that could slip as well. His father had gotten snark for it, but more so of the teasing variety. Really, it had just come down to knowing the small window of when to tend to the trees and when to utterly give up; a patience not many had but simple enough. _Cullen_ could even manage to do it and he had no green thumb.

He waited for Alistair to make some comment about how Cullen had always gotten the best care packages for that specific reason but realized that, though it was an antidote Alistair would share often with others at Skyhold, it likely wouldn’t be one he would share here. For Alistair had never gotten any mail from home. By the time Cullen had gotten there, he hadn’t even gotten any visitors. He was all but adopted by the Chantry.

No doubt it was something that hung between the Arl and Alistair, even if it was Teagan’s brother who made the final call. Cullen may have joined the Chantry, had followed their rules, but he still had a family; one that cared for him very much. Alistair’s family was supposed to be his Templar brothers-in-arms and the sisters. _Was_ being the correct term, though as they had gotten older more and more devotees began enjoying Alistair’s ability to do stupid things. He could piss off nearly every member of the Chantry and Templars alike but managed to be such a good fighter and star pupil that they couldn’t kick him out.

Cullen liked to think that Alistair eventually found his family in him, the Wardens, and other members of the Inquisition. They were a rag-tag bunch that actually made little sense together, but they did care for each other at the end of the day.

“Yes, well, there came a time in the season where we started to complain about drinking so much cider and every dessert being apple pie, I assure you, Ser.”

The Arl laughed at that, moving to finally sit in throne while Alistair came to take his place back next to Cullen.

“May I ask ser, why I was called here so urgently?” Alistair asked. Cullen could tell he was getting antsy, nervous even.

“Business, business, business. Can you not give an old man a moment to catch up? Besides, you both must be road weary, even renowned soldiers such as yourself can only stand so much travel. I’ll have you both shown to your rooms so you can refresh yourself and then you’ll join me for supper, if you’re both agreeable.”

“Of course, my lord,” Alistair said.

They moved to follow a servant that had popped out of thin air before Teagan cleared his throat.“Oh, and Alistair? Do relax. You act as though I’m about to have you executed for high treason.”

Alistair snorted in reply, barely managing to pry on something similar to a smile on his face. To Cullen, it looked far more like a grimace.

Part of him thought that Alistair would rather have his head chopped off than hear the real reason they had come all this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just discovered the difference between 'Capitol' and 'Capital.' 😎
> 
> Why does the English language have to be like this?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. This is..................................so much dialogue, guys. SO much. I tried to convince himself that it wasn't really exposition but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

The rooms given to Cullen were bigger than his at Skyhold, but that wasn’t saying very much. They were not ridiculously over embellished like the ones in Orlais, far from it, but the bed could fit three adults easily and at least one and a half Iron Bulls. He’d much rather make the hike to where he hoped his parent’s old farm still stood and sleep in the barn loft like he used to do as a child.

With a sigh, Cullen allowed himself the luxury of a hot bath while his riding clothes dried by the fire. He was actually about to doze off when he heard the door of the privy open.

“I know for a fact that we rode too hard last night if you’re managing to fall asleep in the bathtub. I should have never listened to you and made us stop to make camp.” Cullen opened one eye, Alistair’s own steps looking weary as he sat on the edge of said bath. His hair was wet, looking more brown than blond because it, and his outfit was such that he could easily throw armor on if such a need arose.

“And if I’m tired, you must be exhausted.” Cullen smirked sitting up and watching as Alistair’s hand slipped into the warm water to simply swirl it around.

“More mentally than physically, I think. I also don’t enjoy the idea of sleeping alone. I’ve gotten too used to your freezing feet.”

Cullen splashed him at that, happy to hear Alistair laugh properly for the first time all day. But a heaviness still sat in his eyes, one that could be caused by a plethora of things and not for the first time, Cullen wished he could be inside of Alistair’s head.

So he took a guess.

“You want to tell the Arl about us, don’t you?”

The quickly widening eyes and the fact t hat Alistair now looked as though he swallowed a lemon was enough to prove that the guess was right.

“No. Yes. _Maybe?_ ”

Cullen tilted his head back on the edge. He really didn’t have a definitive answer on this particular occasion. His sister knew, meaning that both his younger siblings did as well. The Inner circle knew, which no doubt meant the vast majority of Skyhold was privy to their romance. Given his past, Cullen would have thought this would bother him more, specifically since just a few short weeks ago he had nearly blown up at Alistair over it, but he found that something had changed; he truly and honestly did not mind others knowing.

Perhaps he would, after he took rest. Maybe then he’d have a written list with citations to present to Alistair on why they should keep their relationship a secret. But half asleep or not, Cullen was a Commander. His whole job was Void bent on trying to find the best moves while guessing the opponent’s. He couldn’t turn that off if he tried.

“I’d wait. See what we can coax out at supper or at least get a better grip on what’s going to be asked of you. There’s a reason you were sent here and not Denerim. There also doesn’t look to be a huge delegation here, so if you can talk to Arl Teagan in private...” he trailed off. “Look, I would make the assumption that his biggest issue with us would be that we cannot have children. I mean, we _could_ but not biologically.” He uncharacteristically bit his lip. “That being said, I suppose it is a rather big jump to make from telling Teagan that you’re currently seeing a man romantically to having children.”

“Do you want children?” Alistair asked, his head tilted like a puppy before slipping from Cullen’s eyeline.

“That’s what you took away from my miniature lecture?” Cullen rolled his eyes, but Alistair’s insistent silence meant that he wanted an answer. “Perhaps. I’ve never really thought of it as an option. I suppose it all depends on if my health stabilizes or declines. I’d wish to see if I’m going to corrode or not.”

“Cullen, you can’t magically develop lyrium rot if you’re not taking lyrium.”

Warm hands end up in his hair along with the scent of lavender and suddenly any arguments on the topic of addiction were mute. Cullen really didn’t know what he did to deserve Alistair, but thank the Maker for whatever it was.

“What are you wearing to supper?” Alistair easily guided the subject to something debatably safer. He wasn’t exactly a fan of discussing Cullen’s death.

“You mean I can’t wear half a suit of full armor to a fancy gathering?” He was met with Alistair dumping a pitcher of water on his head rather than lovingly pouring the soap away. Cullen couldn’t help but laugh as he spit the liquid from his mouth. “I was planning on wearing my normal mantle with my leather tunic. Unless someone will find insult with me wearing nearly all black.”

“Good. You look handsome in that. Dorian might even approve.”

Dorian actually lectured Cullen before they left about wearing something other than armor during their stay. Alas, he pointed out that wearing what one wears into battle was probably not a fantastic idea for a diplomatic visit.

The surprise on the mage’s face when Cullen told him he did actually own more than one outfit, (he just didn’t see the point in wearing them) and that he already packed everything he might need, was well worth the effort of digging through his clothing trunk.

“You look handsome in anything, so I won’t bother asking if you need my approval,” Cullen smiled.

“I see all these years didn’t ease you out of being a suck up. Whatever am I going to do with you, Rutherford?”

“Mmm.” Cullen took pause. “Giving me a kiss sounds quite nice.”

Alistair leaned forward with a smirk, obviously not caring about the water dripping over Cullen’s body. He couldn’t describe it, but just as Alistair’s lips touched his, a wave of foreboding hit him straight in the chest. The need to tug the other into his arms and protect him from the world, if only for a little while longer, grew as the seconds ticked by. But he couldn’t do that. Alistair was a grown man, a strong person who could fend and thrive by himself. Cullen knew that.

Then why did this all suddenly feel like an ending?

———————❖———————

Cullen was surprised when he first entered the dining hall to see Teagan waiting for them alone. It was to be an intimate affair, which made Alistair as skittish as a recently kicked dog. The Arl sat as soon as they entered, bowls of stew already set at their correct stations, but little was actually pompous. Thank the Maker for small favors.

“So, Commander. How goes your strong hold?”

Cullen was caught with a spoon in his mouth when the question was asked. He hadn’t really thought he’d be brought up in this conversation at all (which was fine by him. Cullen hated talking about himself and was more than pleased to support Alistair). “It’s well. Our forces are at a much more manageable number now, which means training is something that can be perfected and not rushed.”

The Arl nodded, leaning back in his chair.

“Do you have any plans moving forward? If the Inquisition truly ends?”

Cullen did have plans at one point, but then Alistair had shown up and they were quickly discarded. Not that they were anything very exciting. He thought maybe he’d move somewhere way out from the general population and just exist for a while. But now Alistair was there and that weak seed of an idea didn’t fit anymore.

“Not particularly,” Cullen admitted, unable to find a reasonable excuse in time.

“You’re both young men, surely it’s something worth dwelling on.”

“Yes, well,” Alistair placed his spoon down, though Cullen hadn’t seen him eat at all so far “I did take a blood oath, if you forgot.”

“I recall. And when I heard of it I wasn’t surprised, all things considered.”

Alistair’s brows furrowed.

“Alistair, I know you have certain ideas of why you were called here. They’re not completely off course, but not the full reasoning. I’m growing old. There are things you should know, things that I should have never been the one to tell you of, but those better set for such goals are long gone now. Your Commander Duncan, being the main one.”

“Main one?” he asked, eyes flying to Cullen instead of Teagan. Cullen could see the panic set deeply there and wanted nothing more than to grip Alistair’s hand, to steady him. All at once, Cullen felt out of place and relieved to be there at the same time. He had a feeling that whatever the Arl was about to say would not be an easy thing for Alistair to have to repeat.

Teagan pushed his chair back but did not stand. “You must understand that I’ve held very little in sway in your upbringing. Maric left you to Eamon, not me, and though I love my brother _and_ my king, that hardly means I agreed with their every decision. You must grasp that foremost: I am conveying what I’ve been told. As such, it pains me to say that I’ll likely lack many of the answers you’ll want. I apologize for that.”

His tone sounded sincere, his eyes full of despondence. Cullen wondered how much of that sorrow really had to do with regret or if he was merely trying to deflect the blame. Teagan continued: “In his urge to protect you, Maric alienated you and ended up doing precisely the opposite of what he and your mother had wanted.”

Alistair opened his mouth to say something but the Arl raised his hand. “Let me say my piece and then you may ask any questions you wish. I think it would be best for you to hear this all in one tale.” Alistair didn’t give any form of agreement but the Arl pushed on anyway. “Your mother is not who you think. She wasn’t some maid who was wooed once or twice on some stately visit. Maker, if you had met your father _once_ , you would have never believed that story. He was not one for—how would one put it delicately—casual dalliances. In fact, until he met your mother, he had been the brooding widower for nearly half a decade. You could hardly get the poor sod to leave Denerim, never mind travel to Redcliffe. Not after Rowan. So, imagine my surprise to see Maric sitting in Eamon’s office one day, holding a babe of all things. In fact, my initial thought was ‘Eamon has went and knocked one of the servants in the capital up and now Maric is here to scold him’ because to be quite fair, while Maric wasn’t the type for affairs, my brother _certainly_ was.”

Teagan took just a long enough breath for Alistair to shove a word in: “ _King Maric_ brought me here? _Himself?_ ”

“You see,” Teagan huffed, his eyes connecting with Cullen’s, his palm out stretched towards Alistair. “This is the exact reason I told Eamon that it was a stupid plan. 30 years old and he thinks his father was indifferent towards him.”

“Are you telling me he wasn’t? Because, I have a childhood full of memories that would state otherwise.”

Tegan raised his hands in a sign of peace.“Now now, I didn’t say he was smart nor particularly savvy when it came to his children, but he did nearly have a conniption when he found out Eamon put you into Templar training. I’d never seen him so bloody angry.”

“Then why didn’t he take me out!” Alistair spat out. The look on his face was one mixed between furry and tears.

“Because it was better than here.”

Alistair’s face turned white as a sheet, his hands shaking as he slowly hid them in his lap.

“I wasn’t blind, Alistair. Isolde had a vexing disdain for you. I never did understand why Eamon didn’t just tell her the truth of your parentage instead of waiting so many years, but I shouldn’t cast the first stone on him. I’m not innocent in this either. You weren’t meant to be a templar, anyone who spoke to you for five minutes could tell you that, but bringing you back here would have been cruel; there are only so many lies you can spread before they come to bite you in the arse.”

Alistair sat too silently, too rigid for Cullen’s liking. Then again, his whole existence had just been warped in the matter of a few sentences. Hardly caring for precedence anymore, he stood and moved right next to his lover, taking his hand and daring the Arl to say anything about it.

“And Duncan’s part in this?” Cullen asked, knowing Alistair would if he could handle speaking. Teagan took a long drag of wine at that question. Truly, he wasn’t sure why the man looked nervous, there wasn’t anything he could say that would make matter worse.

“Your mother was a Grey Warden. An elvish mage. Her and Duncan were part of the Orelesian wardens who ventured down to the Deep Roads with Maric as a tag along.”

Right. Well. Color Cullen impressed, because the Arl had actually managed to rise to the occasion and significantly fuck everything up even more.

“Your parents thought it best to give up claim to you in a bid to protect you from Loghain and to prevent rivalry between you and Cailan. They did not wish to burden you with the possibility of kingship. I was told Duncan promised to keep an eye on Alistair. I’m sure you can think of quite a few different plans that would have suited everyone involved better than the one that was executed.”

It was, in truth, one of the dumbest plans Cullen had ever had the nerve to hear. It sounded of an idea formulated by people who had never grown up with parents nor had a normal childhood to begin with. From history lessons, he knew this to be true with Maric, and he could only guess the same would be for Alistair’s mother. If she was a mage, the best that could have been hoped for was that she was sent to a Circle that was semi decent to its occupants. Either way, children were sent to the Circle as soon as they showed signs of magical abilities and, if they were born in a Circle, were split up from the parents nearly at birth. He had seen it before: Families were not, as per strict rules, allowed to stay together. No doubt her early life was far from ideal.

“I need to—not do this right now,” Alistair said, his voice cracking on the last word. And then he stood and left the room with no fanfare or pause.

There was the briefest moment of reflecting on Cullen’s part concerning what to do. If the situation was flipped, he’d want to be left alone. But he wasn’t Alistair, and Cullen prided himself on knowing his lover quite well. Alistair loved being doted on, he needed comfort and he likely needed someone to ground him. And if Cullen ended up being wrong in that prediction, well…

“I’ll go speak with him. Goodnight, Arl Teagan.”

If the Arl found it strange that the Commander of the Inquisition was going to go comfort his ex-ward, he made no show of it. Cullen had the feeling that the man knew more than he was letting on.

The walk to Alistair’s rooms was uneventful and he couldn’t hear anything being flung at the walls, which was a good sign. The fact that the door opened with a quick click, as though it was left opened solely for him was another good sign. Or so he thought.

Cullen quickly changed his mind when he found Alistair sitting on the bed, unmoving and unblinking. Maker, maybe not even breathing.

“Alistair? Are you alright?” Cullen asked as he dropped to his knees and placed his hands on the other’s shoulders, gently shaking him. It was a stupid question to ask, of course he wasn’t alright. Very few people would be. The only sign he gave Cullen that he was even listening was the closing and opening of his palms and the barest shake of the head.

He looked like a mage did directly after being made Tranquil. There were the obvious signs of comprehension, that life and consciousness were present, but the body and mind were suddenly at war with each other, unable to cope with the sudden change. In the case of mages, that change was lack of emotions and a sudden disconnection with the Fade. For Alistair, it was likely much more complicated.

Unsure of what to do, Cullen began removing Alistair’s uncomfortable clothing piece by piece. From personal experience, he knew the shaking that engulfed Alistair’s whole body would only pass once the shock wore off. At the very least, Cullen could help him be comfortable. Once that was done, he had Alistair lay down and tucked as many blankets around him as possible, climbing into the bed and pulling the warden tight to his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered against Alistair’s ear. “I’m sorry if I don’t say it enough. I’ve never loved anyone like I have you. That’s a little terrifying, isn’t it? Giving someone your heart? You’ve always been much better at that than me.”

He didn’t expect a response, but wished to merely give Alistair an anchor.

“Come back to me, love. We’re alone.” Cullen kissed Alistair’s ear and then the side of his head, mimicking what he could remember from whenever he had withdrawal episodes. Alistair always held him and never stopped talking, just stating mundane things: the time, the weather, where they were, what year it was. But those comforts wouldn’t be much help at the moment. When Alistair came to, it would be in a strange room. Thank the Maker Cullen had come because he couldn’t stomach the idea of Alistair being all alone right now.

The sun had completely set by the time Alistair’s breathing settled and he wiggled in Cullen’s arms. It’s almost as if he’s trying to burrow inside the Commander’s body.

“That really happened?” Alistair asked in a rather bland tone.

“Yes. How often does this happen? I’ve never seen you—” _I’ve never seen you get as lost as me._

Alistair sighed, making his whole body shutter in what was an answer all on its own. “Rarely.” There is a heavy pause that Cullen wanted to fill. But Alistair smashed it. “My mother was an elf.”

“I know.”

“Duncan lied.”

Cullen hung on to that one. He wasn’t sure he would have acted any differently than Duncan had, in all truth. That would be a terrifying amount of information to throw onto a young man that you just ‘met’.

“I wouldn’t say ‘lied’. More so navigated away from the truth,” Cullen answered.

“She was a mage.”

That was the biggest turn of events, in his opinion. He could see Alistair being related to an elf, now that it was pointed out. His eyes had always been a rather odd shade of brown and his features very angular and sharp. But a mage? Cullen wondered how much the Chantry actually knew of Alistair’s lineage. He knew that in general it was accepted that a child of an elf and a human would be born human (though he didn’t completely buy it. From a logical standpoint, it made very little sense to him and any lick of science he had ever learned) but that hardly halted any racism within communities.

“What if I had become a templar and had been ordered to kill her?”

“But you never were a templar and weren’t ordered to do such a thing. You’ve never had the opportunity to hurt her nor a reason.”

“No, that’s not true,” Alistair curled tightly into himself. “My existence probably hurt her. Knowing she was carrying a bastard half breed while in an order that is nearly infertile probably hurt her too.”

“Alistair,” Cullen’s voice dropped low, one hand slipping around to push on the other’s chest in a weak attempt to make him unwind like a ball of yarn. “I think the only time you caused her pain is when she had to give you away.”

“Then why didn’t she even try to find me! It’s not like she was trapped in a Circle. The Wardens travel all over the place and there are no hard and fast rules on us having children. I mean, we’re basically infertile but it happens. I’ve known Wardens who are married, ones that join up after they have families, they exist. All this time...why was it so much better to completely cut me off? Why was everyone in agreement for such a stupid idea!” 

Cullen swallowed, wishing he had an answer. He still remembered the first time he had met Alistair: a lanky kid who liked to curl up in book piles, who never spoke about his family until one day he snapped and told Cullen everything. He remembered whenever Alistair had a bad day, he’d feign a headache and usually would be allowed to go to bed early. Cullen would come back to their room when the sun was still up, only to find Alistair completely hidden under the covers and dead asleep until the next morning.

The Chantry was cruel in many ways, specifically to Alistair, but even they seemed to know that, if bent the right way, he was easy to break.

“It was stupid. I can’t argue that.” Cullen went back to running his fingers through Alistair’s hair. There wasn’t much comfort he could offer in terms of words. Nothing he said could act as a balm.

“I’m so tired, Cullen.”

“I know. But that’s alright.”

Alistair sniffled, flipping his body over so Cullen could see his face, eyes puffy and stained with tears. “Do you think she’s still alive?” he asked, with a small voice half filled with hope and half filled with heartache. If she was a warden when Alistair was born...

“You’d have to ask the Arl that. Or at least get a name and we can inquire about it,” Cullen said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “But I think that should wait until tomorrow. You look absurdly pale and you gave me quite a scare.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t mind it, honestly. I like that you feel safe with me. I’m not sure I’ve met another being who would feel the same way.” Cullen tightened his arms around Alistair’s frame again, like he was afraid the other would disintegrate if he didn’t hold him close enough.

“If I sleep, will you stay with me?” Exhaustion plagued Alistair’s voice still and he was quickly going slack against the pillows.

“Of course. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hit over a hundred views! Yay! Thank you to everyone who is reading.


	5. Chapter 5

“I need to know and everyone needs to stop with the lies,” Alistair stood in the Arl’s office, his arms crossed against his chest. After a night of sleep and a morning of hiding his head in Cullen’s lap, the disbelief had boiled into anger.

“They were there to protect you, Alistair,” Teagan stated from his desk. There were letters and random papers all over the large surface. It was much more cluttered than Alistair ever remembered Eamon’s being.

“No, they were convenient. And the fact that you would have let me become King without telling me—”

“—Now, that isn’t true. If you did become King instead of Anora, Eamon would have told you everything before the crown touched your brow. Lest someone try to blackmail you with that information.”

“Oh, how kind of you. The amount of love you, your brother, and Maric had for me is considerable, obviously,” his voice echoed through the room, only muffled by the books that lined all four walls. The Arl did not so much as blink. For some reason, Alistair found that angered him even more.

“Your father did love you. I dare say, given the chance, he would have loved you more than your brother.” That took Alistair aback and his expression must have shown as much by Teagan’s reaction of a snort. “I have eyes. Cailan reminded him far too much of Rowan for them to grow close, while you held only memories of a... fond affection. Perhaps even closure, though I could not state that as fact.” Teagan sighed. He had that look on his face that Alistair could never read, as if he were annoyed but also endeared. Alistair was familiar with it from his childhood.

“You remind me so much of Maric sometimes that I have to remind myself the two of you never properly met. And while Calian was all my sister, you look so much like him. Maker, when you walked into the main hall yesterday, I thought you a ghost at first glance. You’re a Theirin through and through, even if you wish to deny it. In fact, denying it just proves my point even more so. Stubborn pricks, the lot of you.”

Alistair dropped into the empty chair across the desk, unable to hold up the weight of his past on his shoulders. No one had ever spoken about his father in such a casual tone before and it was odd to hear of Maric as if he was an actual, normal person. “How’d he meet my mother? If she wasn’t a maid and was a Grey Warden. You said he accompanied her.” 

Teagan nodded his head, as if he didn’t know the answer exactly himself but wanted it all the same. “I’m sure you’ve done the math. Rowan was dead long before you were born. Their relationship was a...complicated one. Arranged marriages usually are. I can only tell you what I know: he took her death extremely hard and Loghain, Maker curse his soul, was able to pull him out of his depression enough to survive. A few years passed, and then one day Maric went missing. The army was on high alert and all that Loghain would share was that he had disappeared with the Grey Wardens. I can tell you no more than that. You’d have to ask your mother for the more specific details, I’m afraid.” 

“She’s—wait, she’s alive?”

“Yes. I’d dare say you’ve likely heard of her. She is Grand Enchanter after all.”

Teagan said it so simply, so easily, that Alistair thought he must have heard it wrong. Truths like that didn’t just come out as words, they had to be ripped apart like bones from flesh. But the Arl didn’t waiver, didn’t take back his words and call them a jest. No, instead he stared Alistair straight in the eye and let it fester.

“Fiona. Fiona, the elf who...with Redcliffe…”

“Yes.”

“She and Maric…”

“Yes, Alistair.”

He threw his face into his hands. “Maker grant me strength, I’m part elf and part Orelsian.”

Teagan snickered at that, standing and crossing over to where Alistair sat. Warm fingers engulfed his shoulder and Alistair pulled his head up. “You’re not inheriting Redcliffe, if that was your fear. I would have wrote and told you so, but given the current climate of things, I couldn’t risk the letter getting in the wrong hands.”

He felt whiplash from how quickly the conversation shifted, but if that was the little that the Arl knew, Alistair would have to settle. “Then who will?” 

Teagan fell silent, his jaw grinding. If it were Eamon sitting there, Alistair would be preparing himself for a berating for sticking his nose in places it did not belong, but the younger Guerrin was never like that. “That’s up for debate, currently. The world is changing, the Circles are dissolved, and the rules that once strictly applied to the status quo have faltered. But that is not your problem, currently. Yours are much more pressing and I’m afraid I have taken one burden from you only to replace it with a larger one.”

Relief flooded Alistair’s system. He was free. Nothing Teagan could tell him would change that. 

Or so he thought until the Arl spoke again.

———————❖———————

“That’s a lot to take in,” Cullen muttered, the glass of mulled wine in his hands cooling in the wake of conversation. Alistair felt the need to get drunk, had told Cullen so as soon as he entered the room, but hadn’t as much as touched his drink since. He was too busy reciting everything the Arl had told him.

“Fiona. Wow. I’m actually quite surprised you aren’t a mage. I’m equally more perplexed that the Arl put you in the Chantry at such a young age, considering. Just imagine what could have been: Little eleven year old Alistair, lighting a Sister’s skirt on fire because she made him go to prayer.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” Alistair cocked his head to the side. “Going off of Fiona, I’d be powerful as fuck. A bastard, half elf mage. They might have actually let Loghain kill me then.”

“Well, the bright side of all this is that you know how to get in contact with her. That is, if you want.” Cullen suddenly held up his glass. “And cheers to you not getting a fancy title.”

“Um. About that…” Alistair’s eyes darted to the ground and it took up until that moment for Cullen to realize how nervous he looked. The whole reason he likely wasn’t touching his drink was less due to talking and more so caused by his trembling hands. “It’s not like Teagan found a third cousin twice removed that was more qualified for the title or anything. And he certainly didn’t remove me from being his designated successor from the goodness of his heart.” 

“Then why did he?”

“Because I can’t be both Arl of Redcliffe and King at the same time.”

That.

That couldn’t.

That couldn’t be right.

“Come again? I think I heard you wrong.” Cullen’s hearing must be going, because certainly Alistair hadn’t just said—

“Anora is dying and I’m technically the only heir left.”

He waited for Alistair to start laughing. He waited a full minute in fact, because this all had to be a joke. One of the really sarcastic ones that left you a little on edge and slightly uncomfortable. But it didn’t happen. Alistair looked serious, achingly nervous, and possibly like he may puke if given the chance.

“What ails her?” Cullen managed to ask in a steady voice.

“Whatever killed Queen Rowan. Likely the taint from the Blight. Some people survive years before it consumes them.”

“Couldn’t you make her a Warden to cure her?”

Alistair shook his head, his normally perfect hair getting miffed at the violent movement. “If she’s already dying from darkspawn blood, the chances of her surviving the Joining are slim to none.”

“What about Andraste’s ashes? Couldn’t someon—”

Cullen felt a warm hand place itself over his own and squeeze. “They’re lost. You _know_ that. Not to mention even if they weren’t, there’s a finite amount. The whole world can’t be cured and who are we to play at the Maker?”

Cullen knew he was right. But right now, everything was too fresh and any idea, no matter how outlandish, held the smallest hint of possibility. If he was feeling like that, Alistair must be hanging by a thread.

“How long does she have?”

He shrugged. “Six months, maybe. Teagan will meet us at Skyhold when it’s close so the transition can be...” Alistair flinched as the last word leaves his mouth “...as painless as possible. Eamon is at the Capital already to be close at hand.” 

“Alistair, you’ve never wanted this. In fact, you were venomously against ruling if memory serves correct, and now you’re simply accepting it?”

He sighed, dropping down onto his knees besides the fire. “What I want and what I have to do are not always merging lines. I didn’t want the crown a decade ago, and I may not want it presently, but at least I now have enough faith in myself to bare the burden. I’m no longer a child: I’ve seen wars, I’ve lost good men to stupid things, I’ve had to talk myself out of sticky situations, and I’ve seen so much of the world outside of Ferelden. I can _do it._ Maker knows I love this country, but there are so many things Anora has either let slide or turned a blind eye to, and I could fix them!” Alistair’s hands were out like a child in prayer, but Cullen had no comfort to give to this aching heart. “So no, I don’t want to be king. But maybe I need to be.”

Cullen swallowed, unbelieving that the question that was plaguing him the most was so selfish, but it had to be asked now. The earlier he got the rejection, the better for all involved. “And what of...us?” 

“I’m working on it. I have a few ideas. That is, as long as you still want to be with me. I won’t blame you if you don’t, you certainly did not sign up for this.”

Cullen shook his head. “Neither did you, last time I checked. I want you. I want us. Templar, Warden, or King.”

Alistair leaned forward and kissed his knuckles in reply, the heat of his lips even warmer than the wine. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that.”

———————❖———————

Nothing of real relevance happened until they returned to the Inquisition.

Alistair blankly avoided mentioning anything to anyone about their visit to Redcliffe, other than he had business to attend to with the Arl. The Inquisitor gave him a look that could freeze over Tevinter but he didn’t budge. Eventually, she would have to be told. He supposed. If he really had to.

It was almost easy to pretend that nothing changed at all. Within an hour of their arrival, Cullen was back in his office and swamped with piles of plans and paperwork. Alistair wasn’t much better off in that regard, but he didn’t have it in him to sit still that day. Yes, everything felt normal, or their ‘normal’ anyway, until Alistair walked into the library.

He didn’t realize his mistake until it was too late. Fiona was in her normal space, deep in tomes and notes and didn’t notice him, but everyone else in the vicinity certainly did. There was no way to turn around and run back down the stairs without looking suspicious. Within a few minutes, Leliana would be calling on him, by dinner there would be a rumor about something being off with the Warden-Commander, which could be filled in with any ridiculous lie. No, no. That wouldn’t do. He’d just find the book he wanted and leave. That was all. No big deal needed.

As he walked, a few people quietly greeted him with whispered ‘welcome back’s or a nod hello. When he passed the Grand Enchanter, she looked up from her studies and did the same, going so far as to smile. Alistair returned the favor, or at least he hoped he did.

It should have been as simple as that, but nothing in Alistair’s life ever really was. He eyed her while pretending to look through the shelves. Fiona was small, he dare say delicate if he didn’t know any better. But in reality, he knew she could kick his arse with barely any effort. For a moment, Alistair let himself imagine what it would have been like to be raised by her. He could see her being over protective, something no one ever was with him besides Duncan.

Some wardens had children, he knew. Alright, not many as they were all practically sterile from the Joining, but _some_ did; especially in the Anderfels. Would he be left at the Keep between missions? If Duncan was the Commander by then, he doubted he would be sent away. Truthfully, Alistair thought he would have loved that as a small child: living in the Ferelden stronghold and gleefully watching the newer recruits train, being allowed to be in awe of magic instead of scolded into being frightened by it, running out and flinging himself at the gates when his mother finally came home, begging for all the stories of what happened on the road.

Their eye color was near identical, he realized. He suddenly wanted to walk over to her and blurt that out:

_We have the same eyes. Has it not bothered you to look at them these last few months? Did you even recognize me before someone uttered my name?_

It would hurt too much though, the possibility of rejection for a second time; even if he couldn’t remember the first. It left a deep sting like a scar on his soul, one that never faded no matter how many years passed, and it clawed at his throat and choked him. Maker’s breath, he wasn’t ready for that.

When there was simply no way to bear it anymore, Alistair took the side door down and ran out of that suffocating building. The past never stayed there, he knew that better than most, but that didn’t mean you should poke at it with a sharp stick.

Not for the first time in his life, Alistair wished his father was still there. He had always seemed more tangible because...Well, he was alive where Alistair’s mother wasn’t supposed to be. There were so many questions to ask, many of them black and bitter, some just plain curiosity. The crux of the matter was that there was only one question that was truly important:

_Did you ever love me? Do you even know what that means?_

———————❖———————

“So,” the Inquisitor waltzed into Cullen’s office without so much as a backwards glance to the runner she just cut off mid-sentence. With a flick of the Commander’s wrist, the lad ran off. “You’re both alive and neither of you look worse for the wear. Should I consider Redcliffe a success then?”

Cullen raised a brow. “Do successes happen at Redcliffe? I wasn’t aware.”

Normal formality would have him standing as soon as Lavellan walked into the room but there was something in him that felt stubborn that afternoon. Truthfully, he just wanted to go to bed and not deal with anyone for the rest of the day, but his job demanded an exhausting amount of attention after such a long time away. Said attention was not calculated with the Inquisitor in mind.

She snorted, leaning her side against the desk. “Can I ask for the result or is that too forward?”

_Far too forward. Even if you think the whole of Thedas is your business._

“I’m afraid that it is not my story to tell, your Worship. Though I will give you assurances that everything went as smoothly as possible and all actions taken by every attending party were proper and of no offense.”

If Cullen didn’t know better, he’d say that the stare she countered with was blank, but in reality it was all too calculating. “You just gave me a whole amount of nothing, Commander. Extremely pretty nothing, but I’m afraid you’ve been around Josephine far too long.”

_Well, the love of my life is about to become King of Ferelden so I best be getting my diplomatic skills pristine._

“Look,” he sighed, pitching his weight forward on the desk. “No doubt Alistair will speak with you as soon as he’s gathered his thoughts, but these things go beyond me and, yes, even you. I ask as a friend that you leave it be for now.”

The few seconds that passed between a response might have been tense, but Cullen was too tired to care.

“Right then. I’ll leave you to your work, Commander. Do try to turn in early tonight. You look as though you need the rest.”

Maker help him, did he.

———————❖———————

“I need your help but I need you not to ask why. In fact, I have a feeling we’ll be helping each other even more than you think in the near future but for now...I just need some knowledge from a non-judgy arsehole.”

“Oh, Warden-Commander, how kind of you to find my wonderful arse the non-judgy type. You do know how to woo someone.” Dorian smirked, more than happy to close up his notes and follow Alistair out from the library and around the various ramparts of Skyhold. “What’s on your mind that has you so frazzled?”

“Oh, just the casual political climate of Thedas and how I have a limited viewscape of it that is generally filtered by ‘who hates Grey Wardens’ and ‘who likes Grey Wardens,’ followed by, if not mixed with ‘Who’s arse did I save during the 5th Blight.’”

“Mm. I see. You must be better off with Josephine if that is the case.”

“Yes. Perhaps,” Alistair leaned over the edge of the cool stone, enjoying the stinging that hit him straight in the face from the wind. “But then she’d ask me why, as Wardens ‘don’t do politics,’ and I’m not sure I’m brave enough to say it out loud yet.”

“Shall I take a guess?” Dorian asked. Alistair gave a singular nod. “By some unremarkable circumstance, you very well may soon be king of Ferelden.”

By some unremarkable circumstance. It truly was, wasn’t it? There was a reason most nobles obsessed over marriage and offspring, on not betting that a single child is necessarily enough. People died. Wars happened and children who were old enough were sent out to make a name for themselves, to grow respect and often they didn’t return. Some people didn’t reproduce for one reason or another, and in the case of Orlais, they had a committee to elect their next ruler anyway. But in Ferelden…

No. It certainly was a rather unremarkable circumstance that led Alistair to where he was now, but in a way it felt like fate had struck him another blow to the head, like the Theirin line would not simply give up.

“There’s not a rumor going around, is there?”

Dorian shook his head. “Not that I know of. Not in Tenvinter at least. I cannot speak for the rest of the world. I do know that Ferelden seems utterly more terrifying when whomever wears its crown is of Calenhad the Great, and not some random girl. Not to say that… Anora, is it? Not to say that she isn’t capable, but the reason monarchies exist at all is the carrying down of a blood line. If it were any other way, a monarchy would be pointless. Alas, I assume you’re not exactly thrilled.”

“No, I’m not. And it gets worse because I always assumed I was the family’s dirty little secret, but it turns out my parents were really stupid. Well, no, they were smart. Are smart. I think. But stupid in somethings,” he sighed.

“Ah, I know that feeling well.”

Alistair winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—different stupid than that.”

Dorian placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “We can both have idiotic parents who think they know what’s best for their child, but are utterly wrong about it. It’s not a competition, I assure you. At least magic wasn’t involved with you.” Dorian must have felt Alistair go taunt under his grip as he suddenly fell silent. “Oh. Oh, well now that’s interesting and would be quite the family secret in the South. May I ask...was she in a Circle or an apostate?”

“Who?” He played dumb, though he didn’t know why.

“Your mother. Unless there is another mystery woman in your family, in which case I’m thoroughly confused and equally intrigued. So again: Circle or apostate?”

“Neither. Both? Sort of. Um, you sort of know her.”

Or at least, better than her actual son did. From what he’d gathered, Fiona’s work station was directly next to Dorian’s, though how much all the mages actually socialized with each other was a mystery at best. It was obvious that the answer didn’t easily come to Dorian as he fell quiet, and when Alistair turned to look at him, he found a man wracking his head for floor plans. He knew the moment he got it when those grey eyes popped open and looked dangerously close to falling out of their owner’s head.

“The Grand Enchanter. Maker, the King of Ferelden had a fling with the Grand Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. Who is also an elf. I am astonished no one has figured out that little dollop of information. Specifically Vivienne. No doubt that would have been useful a decade or so back.”

“They hate each other, don’t they?” Alistair asked.

“Hate and respect, I suppose. From what I understand, Fiona returning to the Circle caused quite the stir at the time, and her magic is unprecedented because of her time away. Which is no surprise, considering the limited knowledge you southerners keep your mages leashed to. You can try your best to restrain knowledge, but you cannot take it away once it’s given. I’d imagine to those locked up in towers their whole lives, meeting a Grey Warden who actually knows proper fighting techniques and has seen the world must be astonishing.” Dorian paused then. “Are you going to speak to her?”

“I do speak to her. I say ‘hello’ at least once a week.”

“Yes, you’re right. Perhaps throw on a ‘mum’ at the end of that next time.”

“Har, har. The wizard has become a comedian now too,” Alistair snorted.

“A wizard! Well, I have never been so offended in my life. The only way I shall forgive this slander is to be made at least a Bann.”

With a deep breath, he forced himself to stand up straight. Moping wouldn’t help...Alright, it would, but not much. “I’ll see what I can do. That is if I don’t throw myself out of the castle window first.”

“You’ll be fine, Alistair. The best rulers are those who don’t want it.”

“Yes,” Alistair said as he slugged his way towards Cullen’s office. “So I’ve been told.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the radio silence. I wanted to have a few more chapters in my backlog before posting some more.


	6. Chapter 6

When Alistair had finally arrived from the Anderfels to Skyhold a few months prior, he hadn’t expected to find a group of highly chipper wardens, and he certainly did not except a warm greeting as the new Commander. Clarel may have lost it at the end, but she was well loved. Stroud, even more so. What he was actually met with was a kindling sort of relief from the few who had survived Adamant and then, subsequently, helped stop the end of the world. There were even a few smiling faces once some of the Ferelden wardens started trickling in. It took a little while, and a promise that he wasn’t going to whisk them all off to Weisshaupt, but eventually they started warming up to him. Once they learned that Alistair knew how to curse in Orleasian (even better that Duncan was the one to teach him in the first place), the trial period abruptly ended and he was easily accepted as their leader—for some reason.

Today, they were beating the ever living shite out of some straw dummies as ‘practice.’ Really, this meant that a few of them would hack the grey sacks down in various method, while the rest of the wardens cheered or mocked the contenders. Alistair had already decapitated three by the time Lavellan sauntered over through the mud of the training ground. He was just about to take off the head of his fourth victim when the elf flicked her wrist and slammed his sword down with the weight of the fucking Void. Alistair was just about to show off his other skill at cursing in Elvish when she smiled, let go of her magic, and interjected with the most random of statements: “Dragon hunting?”

“Are you asking me if I have been or asking me to go? Because if it’s the former, the answer is more like ‘Dragons have been conveniently placed in my vicinity’ rather than actually chasing them around willy-nilly with a sharp object,” Alistair replied, hesitantly lifting his sword again and sheathing it before any other damage could occur.

“There’s a big one at the Storm Coast. Off on a little island by itself. We saw it fighting a giant the last time we were there but we had no way of actually getting to it other than swimming.”

“Did you get vetoed for the swimming option? I’d imagine Bull would just sink and Sera would pretend she was drowning the whole time.”

The Inquisitor sighed, deciding to apparently kick at the ground instead of casually posing as if she was attending a grand ball in Val Royeaux. “I was under the impression that Fereldens aren’t exactly taught how to swim.”

“We’re not. It’s far too cold, but the Chantry makes it a rule for all of their prodigies to know how.”

“Why? What’s the point?”

“Oh, you know, a lot of Circles are by bodies of water, and though they try to not teach mages how to swim, you can’t guarantee they don’t already know how. Can’t have them doggy paddling off.”

She blankly stared at him for an inconsequential amount of time: “You are a weird man, Alistair.”

“Yes, I am. And you’re inviting me to go hunt dragons with you. You may want to reconsider that.”

“No, I’m fine with it. In theory, it’s really just the illusion of choice; I’m trying to make you feel better about forcing you to go. That is, unless you have actual work to do.”

Alistair tried hard to make something up, but it was rather the slow season for Darkspawn in this area. After all, a handful of weeks had passed since him and Cullen had returned from Redcliffe and only two or three days of that time involved anything demon related. They’d breed soon and then come spring it would be a completely different story, but for now it was mostly small clean up jobs and keeping everyone out of trouble. He also was craving to hit something really hard, and a dragon seemed a good enough option. Better than a person, at least. People talked back. 

Resigned to his fate, he shrugged. “As long as I can take a few of the baby Wardens, I’ll go. I’d rather them face a dragon the first time in a safe-ish setting where no one is actively dying.”

“We’re very good at not dying, so don’t worry yourself over that. Just make sure whoever you choose won’t piss themselves at the sight of anything too scary,” she paused, tapping at her chin in thought. “Or, actually, please bring _one_ who _may_ piss themselves. The road does get a little boring and it could be a source of entertainment, I suppose. But only one.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. This woman. She reminded him of Kallian too much for comfort. “If I bring someone of that caliber, I’ll be sure to keep it as a surprise. To keep you on your toes, of course.”

“Of course, Warden Commander. Keeping things fresh and exciting is truly my one goal. Be ready the day after tomorrow. We leave at dawn.”

He nodded, only taking his sword back out once she began walking away. He saved whacking the dummy down the center until Lavellan was back in the castle and far out of casting range.

———————❖———————

Alistair was not the biggest fan of dragons. None of his prior experiences with them had exactly been of the positive variety, and while he found the beasts interesting in theory, he’d rather not fight any more. Unlike the Iron Bull, who looked like he was going to orgasm just from being in the vicinity of one.

“Maker, you wouldn’t happen to want to become a Grey Warden, would you?” Alistair asked as they cleared out another cave of spiders. The dragon was across the sea on a tiny little island, but they could hear the monster as clear as day. “That thing is an infant compared to the ones I normally have to fight. No offense, Inquisitor.”

She offered him no response other than a grunt.

“While I think you guys are pretty cool, dunno how well a qunari warden would go over. Plus, I don’t really feel like dying from drinking your demon swill.”

Alistair shrugged. “You wouldn’t die. I’ve developed a rather decent sense on knowing who will survive a Joining or not. Trust me, you’d be fine. The pay isn’t bad either, believe it or not.”

“Wait,” Dorian turned around from sitting his tent up with a jerk. “Excuse me. Did you just say Grey Wardens get _payed_?”

“Yes? We’re not Chantry workers. We might not have much reason to have much in way of possessions, but we haven’t exactly taken a vow of poverty either. As long as you’re not the poor sod stuck in a Blighted country in the middle of a Civil War, you do manage to get compensation for almost constantly dying.”

“Hey, Boss. You mind if I ditch and become the first qunari Warden? I’d get to fight the real fancy dragons then,” Bull asked, his smile crinkling his good eye and pushing up the patch on the other.

“The Wardens are still leased to me, so if you wish to somehow steal two stipends, who am I to stop you? I _will_ kill you if you go mad, though.”

“Aw, thanks Boss. You’re so sweet. I love talking about murder when the sun is setting.”

On lease to her. Right. Alistair bit the inside of his cheek and went along with setting up his own tent and sleep roll. He doubted that ‘lease’ would last longer than his own presence at Skyhold, as their debt was considered payed by this point in time. But he could see where the Inquisition would get things rather confused in that scenario. Over the past few years, they had gathered control of many things that had owners previously and had basically been given a ‘do as you please,’ voucher. 

He remembered the absolute shite storm that had been conjured up when Lavellan had provoked the right of conscription herself. It was a blessing the Anderfels were so far away, because the reaction to those stationed there were far from happy or accepting, and truly, Alistair had to agree. Then there was the issue of a foreign power reigning an undefined area, ruling independently on the border of two countries, and well…

It was all going to blow up.

He could see that, and he wondered if the others could as well. He knew more than most that once the world was saved, no one really cared about those who saved it. No good deed went unpunished. He just (quietly) hoped that everything exploded before he became king. Else things would get terribly awkward.

“We’ll move out as soon as the sun rises. What is the chance that we walk up on this thing sleeping?” The Inquisitor asked, hands on her hips as she surveyed the sky from the gaping mouth of the cavern. The good weather better hold, because this certainly was not enough cover for a thunderstorm.

“Unlikely. It’ll hear us before we even see it. I’d assume the whole island is its nest, meaning a lot of dragonlings, also meaning extremely protective mummy dragon. Which are, arguably, the worst type other than an actual archdemon.”

Lavellan didn’t seem to believe him, if her reaction was anything to go by. She snickered and made to lay down. Sure, the elf had made a name for herself as some sort of dragon hunter, Alistair wouldn’t deny her that, but it was when one got comfort and cocky that fatalities happened. Accidents. Deaths. Bad ones, at that. He knew a stubborn person when he saw one (Void, he was dating the leader of their club) and knew when to give up trying to sway someone to safety.

Alistair knew this though: he wouldn’t put himself in more danger than necessary. His own demise should be used for a cause far more useful than this.

———————❖———————

“Alright. Fuck, you were right. The mini dragons are never fucking ending,” Bull shouted as he swiped at another. The thing about dragonlings was that there weren’t all that damaging by themselves, but they came in packs and could easily wear a group of warriors down. Not to mention they made for great distractions until their mother healed herself enough to throw another fire ball.

Alistair did take joy in being right, but not when it made his own life harder. “Ignore them. Let’s both just aim for the belly of the big one and finish it off.” Both men nodded at each other as they launched off, the towering yellow beast stomping on the ground and screeching.

He wasn’t in the habit of hunting these things in general. Not since the Blight…or Flemeth…or that one time on a mountain with that religious cult after he had to pass through fire in his small clothes. There was a stark difference to this fight though, and it didn’t occur to him until the end.

The dragon swung its tail, missing him by a few inches at best as he bent his body back and moved underneath it, away from all the kicky limbs. Bull, it seemed, was trying to jab up near the lower throat, while the rest of the crew were finishing off the collateral damage of the twenty or so dragonlings. With a huff, Alistair got to work as well. He stabbed and zigzagged away, only pausing when Bull grinned at him as if this was the most fun he’d had in all his life. He found that rather hard to believe, as Alistair had heard some of the stories from Krem in the tavern back at Skyhold, and a lot of those tales sounded _far more_ entertaining than this.

After what seemed like hours, but was likely minutes, and directly after chugging their last stamina potion, Alistair flung the tip of his sword upwards and bore all his weight into it, ripping the soft skin of the dragon as his blade viciously pulled through all its guts in one long gash. The monster twitched, and as if enthusiastically opening a piñata at a child’s name day celebration, all its entrails gushed out over Alistair in a disturbing amount of goo.

This, he reflected as he was coated head to toe, had never happened the various other times he had fought dragons. He could say with full assurance that he had never gotten dragon blood in his mouth, never mind basically poured down his throat and smashed into every crevice in his Maker damn body.

He spit out what he could and attempted to wipe his eyes clean, not even daring to open them once he heard the loud thud of the dragon tipping over onto his side. Bull’s laughter and glee covered the last death rattles of the beast.

“ _Venhedis._ Alistair, are you alright?” Dorian asked.

Choosing to spit up some more blood instead of answering, Alistair gave him a thumbs up. Or he thought he did. Really, he was rather focused on not retching. Someone tucked a water skin into his palm and he made a solid attempt at washing out his mouth, enough so that he could at least speak.

“I know none of you can magic away all of this, but can you at least get this shite out of my eyes? Please?”

Who does it is a mystery, but Alistair finds himself grumpily walking down to the beach not long after, eye sight in tact.

“I guess your swimming skills will come in handy after all,Warden-Commander,” the Inquisitor said as she and the others fucked off to the side somewhere, at least giving him some sort of privacy.

Everyone except Bull, that is. “You sure you’re okay? If you don’t want to say anything in front of Lavellan, I get it. She’d pick on you to know end, but I wouldn’t.”

“Trust me, I’ve been picked on by the likes of others far above the Inquisitor. She is an amateur compared to some other people I know,” Alistair responded as he peeled off his armor piece by bloody piece. Andraste’s tits, what he’d do for some of Leliana’s fancy soap.

“Yeah, I figured. I heard about some shit from the Blight. Must have been hard, seeing as you were just a kid.”

He hid an eye roll but dunking his head under water. Bull was a good guy, but he knew the qunari had more than heard ‘some shit’ about the Civil War and the whole mess that went with it. He didn’t even want to know what the Qun had on him, all things considered.

“Did you hear it from Sten or the Spymaster? Because they’re both gossips, especially to each other.”

There’s a confused look in The Iron Bull’s eye for just a moment before it turned into amusement. “You do know if you meet the Arishok and call him ‘Sten,’ you might be killed on the spot, right?”

He shrugged. “I have it on pretty good authority that when you get called ‘ _kadan_ ’ a lot by someone that you’re allowed a little bit of leeway with titles. Or else Dorian would flay your arse every time you call him ‘ _Vint._ ’”

“The Arishok called you ‘ _kadan_ ’? Really?” Bull whistled. “That’s definitely not something I was ever told about.”

“Oh, he called all of us that, for the most part. I’m about 75 percent sure him and Leliana slept together once too. And this was _after_ she decided to go back to the Chantry once the war ended.”

“Yeah, well, Chantry sisters have pretty good stamina, so I can’t say the man doesn’t have taste.”

Alistair stopped scrubbing his skin raw long enough to throw a look towards Bull. What it read was likely unclear, but it certainly conveyed the frayed nerves of a very tired man who did not want to talk about his friends railing each other.

Again, Bull asked: “You’re _positive_ you’re fine? And I don’t mean just physically.”

_No, actually I’m pretty fucked up at the moment. Getting dragon goop all over me really is just a highlight. Do you have about a window of two hours for me to give you the full lecture of my life?_

“Trust me, that’s not a conversation you’d want to have right now. If we’re talking dragon trauma, I’m fine. Not all of us have the foresight to jump out of the way like you did.”

“I dunno, you’re hot covered in blood. If you weren’t with Cullen…” Bull trailed off.

“I think you’re forgetting about Dorian,” Alistair pointed out.

“Nah, Dorian would probably join in.”

“Huh.” He couldn’t think of any witty reply to that. If things had been different, he likely would have been taken by the offer. But Maker, he wished Cullen was here. Partly because sex would make him tired enough to actually sleep, partly because he simply just missed him. Mostly because he wanted to see the Commander’s face when he heard about Alistair being offered an threesome with his party companions. 

“C’mon, let’s get back to the others so someone can look you over and we can all find something to eat that isn’t fish.”

Alistair conceded quickly enough. The faster they got back to camp, the quicker he could pretend this day hadn’t happened.

———————❖———————

After washing himself a second time in order not to soil his clean change of clothes, Alistair helped himself to a bowl of mush, all while trying (and failing) to pretend Dorian wasn’t staring at him.

“You seem—off,” the mage commented.

They were back at the cave, spread out and resting before they made to Skyhold the next day. Thank the Maker. Unfortunately, this didn’t do much to temper Alistair’s dour mood. “Bull already gave me the speech, Dorian. Don’t bother yourself for another.”

“He is rather good at speeches. You know what else he excels at? Reading people. Rather like an open book. So if he’s bothering you, I stick to my original point.” Alistair felt another diagnostic spell simmer in his veins, which had to be the third in the last hour alone.

“What in the Void are you looking for?” he asked before shoving another spoonful of food into his mouth.

“Internal bleeding, a broken bone; the stick Cullen usually has shoved up his arse. Perhaps you borrowed it as a love token.”

“Maybe it’s a blessing he’s not here, if this is the amount _you_ of all people are going to mother hen. He’d be far worse.”

“You think,” Dorian began. “That the delay in time will keep him from fawning all over you? Oh, please. He’ll be dragging you to the healers as soon as we’re through the gates and I shall be your only line of defense.”

“I’m fine!”

“You’re tired and mentally fatigued is what you are. Finish your terrible gruel that Bull so kindly made for us all and go to sleep, lest I make you.”

Alistair wished to argue for the sake of arguing, much like a toddler who has stayed up past their nap time, likely even with the same vocabulary, but he wanted nothing more than what Dorian offered.

“Could you?” he asked. “Make me sleep, I mean. The dreams always get bad after fighting a dragon, and I’d rather not wake everyone.”

Dorian looked him over again, this time with just his eyes. Whatever he found there must have been satisfactory or equally as depressing, as he agreed with a firm nod. “Very well. Prepare for bed and I’ll do so when you’re ready.”

Alistair had little to do in the way of getting ready to sleep, and he soon found himself laying down in his bed roll close to the fire. Dorian’s warm hand gently drew some sort of sigil on his forehead and just as quickly, the world started to tumble away. He thought he heard the other mumble something under his breath, something calming, perhaps something sad, but the magic in veins hugged him too close to sleep to contemplate it.


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you sure you’re alright, Warden-Commander? You look pale.” The warden that asked was a rather newer addition; a lad who was previously a healer at the Circle in Orlais. He was one of the only mages to have escaped Clarel’s mad plan back at Adamant by sheer luck. It turns out that being far out in the mountains to assist in a birth was distance enough to avoid being bound to a demon. Alistair was glad, as Everett was good company to keep and certainly would have ripped Clarel a new one.

“I’ll survive,” he replied with a lop sided smile, one that lacked any real energy. Everett didn’t seem to buy it. Maker, they were just a day and a half away from Skyhold, no one needed to deal with Alistair’s sudden fatigue. “Just too long on the road. Once I have a bath and a proper bed, I’ll be back to my obnoxious self.”

“So you’re not about to pass out?” Everett asked.

“If I do, just leave me be. My horse is more than use to carrying my dead weight around.” All the other wardens snickered and laughed quietly, whatever tension having overtaken the group melting away the faintest of amounts. Alistair wasn’t exactly sure of what had cause it in the first place. Surely, it couldn’t be him, could it? Yes, he’ll admit he hadn’t been in the best of moods ever since the dragon situation in the Storm coast, but it wasn’t bad enough to cause discomfort to everyone for days. Was it?

Duncan had always been so good at hiding his emotions and keeping a level head. It had taken months for Alistair to learn the older man’s ticks and to read between the lines—something most people never bothered to learn. Rightfully so, he supposed, but in his experience it was always safer to be able to tell your superior’s mood easier than your own. Not that he needed that skill for its intended purposes, as Duncan was nothing like the people he had grown up with. In fact, such an ability ended up being useful for quite the opposite; he found himself trying to persuade Duncan to duel when he was angry, or asking him silly questions when he showed signs of sadness. But Alistair always showed his emotions squarely on his face, and it was a trait he was bitter about. Something he’d been working on, truthfully, but when you’re exhausted it is quite hard to keep yourself in check.

Still, even if he felt terrible, it didn’t mean that should reflect on everyone else.

He turned his gaze back to the Inquisition, who were lugging behind and bantering, in no ample rush to return home. There were only responsibilities waiting for them there, heavy and burdensome. Perhaps not so many as last year, but they were still there. Cullen, for example, was likely hiding under a pile of paper work (that very could be given to his assistant). Truly, it was one of the most bizarre changes in the Commander from when they were children. Yes, Cullen thrived on school work of any kind, but given the choice between adventuring, sparring, or book work, it was not going to be the latter. Must be a Kirkwall development.

They got back eventually, but there was very little way of greeting. Rightfully so: it’s one of the first not freezing days in months and everyone wants to breathe fresh air that won’t make their noses sting. People are bustling to and fro, children are constantly almost being stepped on as they run around and stretch their legs, and work still needs to be done.

Alistair stayed with his wardens right up until one of them started telling the story of the dragon fight. That was when he chose to slink off, not wanting to hear the gross ending again. In fact, just thinking about it made his skin crawl and the first thing he did was take a hot bath and scrub his skin red. It still felt as though the blood was coating his body, like the hot metallic taste in his mouth would never disappear despite chugging water and ale. It was all in his mind after all, and logically Alistair knew this, but you can’t argue with your brain and for some reason, unbeknownst to him, he simply couldn’t let this go.

He forced himself out of the wooden tub eventually and replaced his travel clothes with soft linens and a heavy sweater. The sun was still out, the weather still mild, and though he could feel the light on his skin, it refused to translate to warmth. If anything, he felt colder than prior to washing, as if he had been stuck in a rain storm rather than heated water.

Tired. He was exhausted, that was all. He never excelled at not sleeping, unlike many other warriors and he barely found any rest on their way back to Skyhold. Alistair would go visit Cullen and then go to sleep. A simple plan that had a small likelihood of getting messed up.

Cullen greeted him with a smile as he rounded his desk, his mantle hanging from the back of his chair. “You made good time. I wasn’t expecting you back until tomorrow night.” He pulled his lover close with one hand, his other resting on the back of Alistair’s neck. Something must have broke the picturesque scene though, as that smile was replaced with a slim frown, but Alistair couldn’t make the first guess of why. After all, Cullen tasted of honey cake for some unspecified reason, and he’d be more than happy to kiss him again. “Maker’s breath, you’re freezing. No wonder you’re dressed like it’s Firstfall.” He hand ran up and down Alistair’s spine in an attempt to make some friction.

“I’m alright. Just a little tired is all.”

“I wasn’t aware that being tired makes one cold.”

Alistair shrugged in reply. It wasn’t as if he could come up with an excuse for his body temperature.

“Why don’t you go up to my bed and lay down?” Cullen suggested. “I just have a bit of work to finish up and then I’ll join you.” He looked so contented just to _see_ Alistair and that alone made his stomach flutter. Yes, sleeping here would be an upgrade to his original plan.

He kissed Cullen’s lips once more before climbing the steps to the upper chamber and kicking off his heavy boots. Without a second thought, Alistair fell side ways into the bed and dug himself under the soft covers. Through the thin floors, he could hear the rumblings of Cullen’s voice as he talked to one of his recruits and it made for one lovely sort of bedtime story. Well, _afternoon_ story if you wanted to be technical. Even though for Alistair it was certainly time for bed.

He fell into the gentle lull that only a good nap could bring, and left the rest of the world behind him for a while.

———————❖———————

“Darling?” Cullen softly whispered, half kneeling on his side of the bed. Deciding to wake Alistair up was a mental battle on his part. He had looked so tired when he first arrived, as if he was about to crash onto the floor at any minute. But a solid few hours had passed and Cullen had left his warden undisturbed and through his periodic checks, Alistair hadn’t so much as moved a muscle. For a normal person, that wasn’t a worrying thing, but for a Grey Warden…Well, Cullen didn’t know _all_ their secrets but he knew enough that a sound deep sleep was rarely ever found once one joined. If he was hurt or something was wrong, it was best not to let it wallow.

Alistair pressed himself against Cullen’s hand with a groan. “That feels nice.”

“Yes, I’d imagine so.” He didn’t dare halt his ministrations. “Are you feeling well? You’re still quite cold.” There were no other blaring signs of hypothermia and Cullen trusted his judgement enough on the topic; he’d seen multiple people succumb to the cold over the years, but that fact didn’t halt his worry.

“I’ve been that way the last few days,” Alistair replied, as if that was meant to alleviate any concerns.

“That doesn’t exactly make me feel better, love.”

Alistair shrugged. “I’m just tired.”

“What if I get us some food? Would you debate eating?”

“I’m not very hungry either.”

Cullen’s frown deepened. “Something’s off with you, Alistair. I’ll have you know, I’m about one word away from getting a healer. Even if it means you won’t talk to me for a week.”

“I heard what happened,” Cullen admitted timidly. “Bull won’t stop talking about it. Though I’m a bit lost on the outcome. I know you’re always tired after traveling but the Inquisitor says you’ve been like this for days. Are you hiding an injury?”

“No.”

The Commander rubbed the back of his neck. This was new territory for him. He was doing the exact thing he despised people for attempting to do when he was ill. But this was different; he could feel that it was and it was certainly above his own scope of knowledge. It was one of the only times he wished Solas was still around. Or, dare he say it, Anders.

Feigning giving up and leaving his lover alone, Cullen found himself wandering through the now empty rotunda, his footsteps echoing on the stone as he nervously went to the only person he could think of that could possibly help.

“Commander. This is certainly a surprise. How can I be of assistance?” The lithe Orlesian accent always caught him off guard in their few interactions, and now was no different.

“Grand Enchanter, I apologize for interrupting your afternoon. I know you must be busy.”

“Nonsense. You look like you’ve seen a spirit.”

In a way, Cullen thought he had. Even though he had two feet on Fiona, it felt like she was towering over him with years of knowledge he couldn’t even begin to guess at. This was also the first time in years since he had spoken to a mage so high up in the Circle of Magi, and it was with the person he thoroughly did not want to hate him. “It’s of a personal nature. Alistair, you know of him.” _For maker’s sake, of course she does you twat. She gave birth to him._ “He’s been acting…off. Ever since arriving back from his dragon hunting expedition earlier today. From reports, he was fine up until he single handedly gutted the beast, and then. Well. He’s become unwell, in a sense. If he wasn’t a Warden, I’d assume it was blight poisoning, but surely that is impossible.”

Fiona stared at him for a moment, her lips pressing together in a straight line. “Did he swallow any of its blood?” She asked quietly.

“He got rather covered in its insides, so I’d assume so.”

“Ah.” She clicked her tongue and Cullen felt totally lost. This would all be so much easier if they were not dancing around the simple truth of who she was to Alistair. But that wasn’t his place, nor his story to tell. Alistair was likely to kill him as it was for even speaking to his mother without his permission. “I was close to his father, once upon a time. Maric was a good man, but the least kingly king you could ever lay eyes upon. But the one thing he always did like about his lineage were the stories. The Theirins have many, though I only know one or two. Surely, you as a Ferelden would know them better than I. For instance, Calenhad the Great.”

Cullen’s brows furrowed. “Of course, but they’re just stories.”

“Every story has some truth to it. Isn’t that the point?”

“You’re being very cryptic, Grand Enchanter.”

“Call me Fiona, please. And this may be the first time someone has described me as a cryptic before. Much better than the normal adjectives,” she smiled. Cullen could see why Maric would have be taken with her. “I’m merely suggesting that he may have started transforming into a reaver. It would be odd, but not impossible. The methods for creating a Warden are much more specific than a mouthful of demon blood and the transformation of a Reaver isn’t something extremely well documented.”

A Reaver. Maker help him, why had no one thought of that? Fuck, why had Bull not thought of that?

“I could examine him, if you’d like. That is, if he’d allow it. I’m not sure how comfortable the Warden-Commander is with magic given his past.”

“He actually loves it,” Cullen found himself responding for some reason. “He was always getting lectured in class to stop being in awe of spells and such. It is one of the main reasons he would have made an incredibly terrible Templar.”

“Or an incredibly good one, depending on your viewpoint.”

Cullen shrugged a single shoulder, not finding it in himself to kick up anymore dust. Both of them knew, better than most, what happened to people like Alistair once they took their vows. If he were lucky he’d end up like Samson, kicked out of the Order and left to fend for his addiction himself. Maybe he’d semi-land on his feet. But Raleigh had been sentenced to that fate merely for passing love letters between sweethearts, the mages involved turned Tranquil. Cullen could see Alistair going far beyond that. The idea of it all made him feel ill and once again he found himself sending up a prayer of thanks to Duncan.

He ignored the pang of guilt for his past as best as he could. He could wallow in the things he could not change later.

“He’s currently in my quarters, refusing to get out of bed. I spoke to the other Wardens and they claim he’s been extremely insipid the whole ride back.”

Fiona nodded. “Hopefully I’ll be able to put everyone at ease.” Cullen noticed her specific terminology. _Everyone_. Not him, not Alistair. Everyone. Herself included. The Grand Enchanter didn’t look nervous, but he knew that anyone in her position had to be well kept at hiding emotions and feigning complete confidence. This was the woman who had openly convinced the mages to veto the Circle of Magi, all while locked in a tower with Templars ordered to kill first and ask questions later. He couldn’t even say doing such a thing was stupid—in his opinion, what Anders had done in the name of mages was stupid—what Fiona had done was calculatedly brave. But that wasn’t a conversation to have right now, possibly not ever. He doubted she wanted a ex-Knight Commander’s opinion on such matters, and he respected that.

But despite their differences and muteness on the matter, they both shared familiar ground when it came to protecting one person.

Cullen just hoped Alistair would forgive him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm bringing in elements from the comics. Whoops.


	8. Chapter 8

The buzzing under his skin that normally would have Alistair bolting awake now almost lulled him back to sleep. It wasn’t its presence that kept him conscious, but its simpleness. This particular magic seemed to be almost lazing about, fluttering around in an attempt to do something, all while going _‘ah yes, this is familiar. I know how this works. I barely have to try._ ’

The closest comparison Alistair could make was Wynne’s healing magic. But he had reckoned that was simply because Wynne was the team’s grandmother for all intent and purposes, and her magic had never seemed...well... _uncomfortable_ anytime she called it forth to heal him. And she had healed him many many times.

But this wasn’t Wynne. She was dead. And her mana always felt green, while this person’s felt blue. A deep dark blue. Like a lake, or a warm velvet cloak. It was his undeniable curiosity (the thing that will likely get him killed one day) that forced Alistair to open his eyes, and as soon as he did, he strangely found himself staring back at them.

The fact that said eyes were attached to a petite elven woman was neither here nor there.

“Welcome back to the land of the living. You’re quite a deep sleeper for a Warden,” she said, her face passive.

He cleared his throat, wondering just how long he must have been asleep. Maybe he had slipped into a coma, as that was the only situation he could imagine Cullen going to fetch the Grand Enchanter. “I’m normally not. The nightmares don’t exactly give me much wiggle room.”

She nodded in understanding, and he wondered once again what it was like for the taint to leave your blood. The after effect must be dizzying, even terrifying if you weren’t prepared for it. And who could be?

“That’s the bit that feels wrong. We killed a dragon, I made the killing blow. The nightmares should be unbearable. Maker, the only time I remember Duncan ever trying to get proper drunk was after we killed something extremely nasty. He always carried around this little flask filled with some sort of disgusting Dwarvish brew that tasted like tar.” Alistair swallowed, unsure of why he was suddenly sharing any of this. Talking about Duncan still hurt, even a decade on. “He said it was the only thing that could get a warden drunk off his arse, make them sloshed enough to ignore the dreams altogether.”

A sad smile appeared on Fiona’s face, and he was surprised that she didn’t try to mask it for something else. Of course she was sad. Warden. With Duncan. Duncan, who had named an axe after her. Why an axe? He had no idea. An axe seemed like a pretty shitty thing to fight with when you duel wield. He wondered when the last time someone had spoken to her of Duncan was. How she found out about his death.

“The terrible dwarven tar wasn’t his original idea, I’m afraid to say. He stole that one from a very old friend.”

“Ah. He always was good at stealing things, even if he claimed otherwise,” he folded his arms across his chest. Speaking like this, talking about Duncan in a fashion beyond Ostagar felt good. It felt right. “He’d be giving me a lecture right now, if he were alive. Something about being reckless, something else about overthinking. But I’m right, the darkspawn dreams should be hounding me by now.”

Fiona inclined her head. “That’s why I’m here. Cullen informed me you were unwell and I convinced him of my possible ability to help.”

Cullen. She had called him Cullen. They were on a first name fucking basis now. Okay, that settles it. He must be in a coma. “That was your magic then?” he asked.

“Yes. I apologize for doing any sort of testing while you were asleep, but I thought it counterproductive to wake you while you were resting comfortably for a change.”

“You’re very good. Normally when someone casts at me, I can feel it from a mile away.”

Bashful might not be the correct term for the change in the Grand Enchanter’s face, only viewable for a brief few seconds, but it was the closest Alistair could get. He wondered if magic felt like this between families, if her mana recognized him.

“Well, I would hope I was elected to this position for a reason other than my inability to hold my tongue.”

Another family trait, Alistair thought. Though if it was from Maric or Fiona was a toss up.

“Did you find anything interesting?” he asked, realizing right then that this was the longest conversation they’d ever had by a pretty wide margin. It surprisingly didn’t feel the least bit awkward, which was worrying in its own way as Alistair’s default state was to make any and all things unwieldy.

Cullen’s super sonic hearing must have kicked in, or he’d gotten bored pacing his office, as his head suddenly popped up from the ladder that connected the two rooms. He looked wide awake, even manic with the need to do something, but the only thing to really accomplish was listening to what was likely not going to simply be _‘Oh, you have the sniffles.’_

“ I’ll be blunt. You swallowed dragon’s blood. In most cases, that is cut and dry. One dies, or they turn into a ghoul. Unfortunately, nothing about you would be quite so simple,” Fiona explained.

Cullen snorted from his newly found little perch in the corner of the room.

“From my limited knowledge, turning into a Reaver isn’t as simple as accidentally swallowing a specific type of blood, much like becoming a Warden isn’t as simple as shooting back some dark spawn ichor. It involves a ritual of sorts, not dissimilar to how a Joining works, though it does involve much less magic and a less specific concoction to gag on. Which leads us to a hypothesis of what’s happening to you.”

Oh, Alistair couldn’t wait to hear this one.

“Your blood is already tainted, albeit in a slightly different manner. Keeping in mind the similarities, I believe there are two outcomes: Either, the original taint is similar enough to act as a conduct for transformation into a Reaver. Or, and I would find this one more likely, the mutation needed to be transformed into a Reaver is fighting with the already existing corruption that comes from being a Warden. The latter is treating the former almost as an infection. I believe the taint is working like an inoculation.”

“Right,” Alistair sighed, letting his gaze linger onto Cullen. He now had his arms crossed and was looking worried in that silent sort of meditative way he often got himself into. “So it’s a waiting game to see which it is. Or if it’s something else entirely.”

“In a sense. I wish I could offer you more in the way of comfort, but I fear the only way I could gather more information would be seen as rather a crude request.”

Alistair tilted his head. He had spent a year of his life living with a flirty assassin, a witch of the wilds, an ex-bard turned Chantry sister, and a Qunari soldier; ‘crude’ was a word that had lost meaning long ago. “Ask away, Grand Enchanter.”

“A sample of your blood.”

Perhaps it was the way she said it more than the content of what she said, as there was no sheepishness to the inquiry, but Cullen suddenly bolted to attention. “Whatever would you need that for?”

She did not hold her hands up in a placating sign of peace as many would wont to do, nor did she even flinch. Alistair found himself wondering if at some point, after years and years in a Circle, you just simply got bored out of your fear of Templars or if Fiona truly could not arsed. She stood there blankly, as if she did not know that what she had just asked for was enough to be condemned in Kirkwall. “Calm, Commander. There are various other things far more worthy to raise your heart rate over. If I’m right, I should be able to tell the level and type of corruption in Alistair’s blood stream instead of making half-witted guesses.”

“Would you be able to guess when my Calling would be?” Alistair asked. “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Would you truly want to know that information?” Fiona countered.

“No, not really. But I want to find a cure for it and maybe that’s the first step.”

Something softened in the Grand Enchanter’s eyes then.”I’ll see what I can do.”

With a solid nod, Alistair slid over to the side of the bed and grabbed one of the empty elfroot vials that Cullen had been periodically shoving down his throat. “Cullen, give me your dagger.”

“Alistair, are you sure this is wise. It could be blo—”

“—Cullen, please. Just give me your dagger so I don’t have to crawl out of bed to find mine.”

With a huff and a scowl, Cullen unsheathed the small dagger from his boot and handed it to Alistair. With not a singular hesitation, the warden pressed hard and slashed the blade across his palm, squeezing his hand into a fist once the blood started to well. It was a bit messy, but he managed to get half the vial full before corking it and handing its newly bloodied contents to Fiona. She took it without question, slipping into the pocket of her robe. But before voicing anything else, she gently took Alistair’s injured palm until a blue glow engulfed it, making it tingle, and he watched on quietly as the skin knit itself back together within seconds. There wasn’t even a scar.

“Rest while you can. I’ll update you once I gather any information,” she said, her hand squeezing his for only the briefest of moments. It was over so quickly that Alistair thought he must have imagined it.

“Thank you, Fiona.”

It was only once she was gone that Alistair realized this was also the first time he had felt his mother’s touch.

———————❖———————

“You shouldn’t have given that to her.”

“And you shouldn’t have gotten her involved at all.”

Bickering wasn’t exactly what Alistair wished to finish the day off with, but he did want to punch something and walking more than the length of the room made him tired, so arguing with Cullen was the second best thing. It was just a rather unfortunate subject matter.

“And it’s a good thing I did. No one else would have put that together.”

“So you think it’s good she helped, but are also pissed that she’s continuing to help. Logical.”

“You gave her your blood, Alistair. There’s only one thing mages do with blood.”

“Hm. And there’s only one thing Templars do with it too. So it seems like we’re on a rather equal playing field.”

“Phylacteries are different.”

“Phylacteries are blood magic! But because it’s sanctioned by the Chantry, it’s allowed. That’s it! That’s the only difference,” Alistair covered his face with his hands and grappled his anger in. He didn’t particularly care to fight, least of all with Cullen.

“You don’t know what she’s going to do with it, Alistair,” he mumbled, kneeling onto the ground besides the bed.

“What could she possibly do with mine that she couldn’t do with her own? Maker, she’d have an easier time and much better access if she just pricked her finger.”

“Oh,” Cullen dropped silent. He obviously had not thought of this little fact.

“Look, she was in the Circle’s walls for what…28 years? If she had any record of being a blood mage, or even the mere rumor of it, they wouldn’t have allowed her to be elected to even First Enchanter. You’re not the only one who trained to be a Templar, you know.”

“I’m simply worried, love. Can I not worry over you?”

Alistair muffled his groan as best he could. He stood up quickly, fighting against the dizziness that flitted into his head. Pacing. He needed to pace. The stone was cool under his fingers as he walked parallel to the wall. “It’s a waste of time,” he argued. “It’s like a cold. I just have to wait it out and I’ll be fine.”

“I think you’re oversimplifying it just a tad.”

“I’m not,” Alistair exclaimed, throwing his hands up and subsequently letting go of the wall. He realized rather quickly that that was a bad idea as the world tilted again, but before he could hit the floor, strong hands were catching his fall.

“You know how I was lecturing you about sleeping too much before? I take that back. You need to be in bed. You can yell at me from there.”

“But Cullen.”

“Bed.”

It wasn’t as if Alistair could put up much of a fight anyway. There was just something within him that wanted to do the complete antithesis of what Cullen voiced out of spite.

Bed. The different flavors of demon blood could fight to the death there.

He bit his tongue as Cullen tucked him in, possibly even pouted as he kissed his forehead. Having anyone to care or worry about him was new, and there was an overwhelming part of him that just wanted to melt and soak it all in. Someone cared if he lived or died other than because of his uses and the reality of that made Alistair a bit more dizzy. But there was another part of him that felt betrayed, a chunk that told him to be mad at his lover, to twist and pull at the seams. The feeling was new as he generally wasn’t an angry person, but this sickness had fogged over his normal emotions, and where he normally found forgiveness or compliance, he now found the exact opposite.

He choked it down. He had to. Eventually, this would all be over and he’d be back to his jolly old self.

“Darling, you look like you’re about to think yourself into a migraine.”

Alistair blinked, rubbing his eyes. “I think that advice is a bit too late. Maker, am I glad no one is here to interrogate me into spilling my deep dark secrets.”

“Would now be a good time to ask about the Calling then?” Cullen asked rather soothingly. If this was how he examined prisoners, Alistair was a bit concerned.

“Yes,” he answered promptly. “No doubt you know more than you’re supposed to anyway.”

“You wish to cure it?” It was a simple question, one worth asking, but Alistair felt himself growing tired once again.

“I don’t have an heir. If I die now…” he trailed off.

“And you don’t know when the Calling will strike.”

“There’s a rough estimate. In a perfect world, I’d have plenty of time. But after what happened with the fake Calling in Orlais, I can’t risk it.”

“This becoming king business has made you think in-depthly about quite a lot, hasn’t it?” Cullen asked while absentmindedly drawing circles on the bedding.

“I feel like I’m a door, blocking all the bad stuff from coming inside and if I swing open everything will fall to shite. I don’t want that to happen. And beyond that—Maker, I don’t want to die. Not yet.” His chest felt tight all of a sudden and his skin went so terribly cold, but warm arms pulled him forward and held him close in retaliation.

Cullen hushed him. “One thing at a time, Alistair. Take it as it comes, else it will drown you. Let’s focus on getting you better first.”

Alistair nodded. Maybe. Or at least he thought he did, but his head soon grew too heavy to move, and Cullen’s shoulder felt like a nice place to be stuck on. Once again, he gave into sleep and prayed the monsters would stay away for one more night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiona and Alistair bonding time. 
> 
> I'm not crying, you're crying.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow such update, much quick.

The archdemon flew overhead, circling Denerim in large swoops as the city burned.

“The bloody thing won’t land! How are we supposed to kill it?” Alistair said over all the chaos. The mages kept trying to send long distance spells to at least weaken the thing as they waited, but the dragon decided this was the best time to take a little rest on a perch, far away from where any of their soldiers could get it.

Leliana kept trying though. One or two arrows out of a half her quiver landed onto its mark. But the thing was far too large to even feel the cut of a poisoned arrow head.  
“Is it bad,” he asked, turning to Kallian, “that I wish it would just hurry up and kill us?”

Kallian grunted. “No. You’re right. After this whole time, I’d rather be blunt with demons and if this is to end in fire, brimstone, and our blood staining the floor, I’d rather get it over with.” She held up her draggers, pointing them at the archdemon who was responsible for almost all their misery. Almost—Loghain still was a heavy percentage of it—but even death runs out of patience. “Maker’s fuck, get on with it! If I wanted to fight with giant slimy Tevinter snakes, I would have made better time getting to the Imperium!”

“Oh, so now we’re taunting the archdemon? Perhaps not the most effective method, but creative.” Zevran was smiling. Still. Alistair wasn’t sure how he was doing that.

Time warped then; an hour felt like an eternity and a second all at once, and Alistair couldn’t take a single guess on how long they had been there after the dragon finally graced them with a fighting chance. They had been attacking as hard as they could, but Zevran and Leliana were now lying unconscious on the ground (Not dead. Alistair had checked and nearly cried in relief.), and other bodies of their allies littered the earth around them. Dwarves, Elves, Soldiers, and Mages, brought together by the impossible, their blood inseparable as it stained Alistair’s boots and sank into the stone.

Maker, he was so tired. So was Kallian. So was the archdemon. It couldn’t take off anymore, far too injured to do so, but it certainly still put in a valiant effort and had the strength to kill both of them with a well aimed strike.

He chugged back another healing potion, throwing the empty glass vial hard against the floor. He could sleep later, whether he was dead or finally able to lay down in a bed, it didn’t matter. Rest would come one way or another. Funny how it started with just him and Kallian, and that was exactly how it was going to end. Poetic, even.

It was then Alistair saw his opening. Neither of them had to sacrifice themselves to rid the world of the archdemon, certain…plans had been put into place that made such a need null and void, but that didn’t mean this would all end well. That thought was wiped from his mind as Kallian distracted the dragon with a feint, giving time for Alistair to throw himself upon the beast, making it to its back before it noticed. Or so he thought. He grabbed onto its neck with all his might and climbed, driving his sword between its eyes, sliding down its snout as it flung itself around in a screech loud enough to deafen half of Ferelden.

Alistair flipped and landed in a lung.

The archdemon placed its head down, and opened his mouth, its eyes flaring red. It looked ready to die, but it spoke instead. “ _And so the blood of Calahad strikes once again. Your elven ancestry did not dilute your power—surprising. But my soul could never rip you in two, Thierin-son."_

Alistair couldn’t move. His hands shook as that voice rang through his skull, not unlike a song, like a Calling he could translate, except it wasn’t calling him to his death. It was deep, old, wrong and right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He knew this story, he had lived it.

“ **Dov-so-kiir, hi krii rinik fin hi aal** ** _vokrii,_** _[1]"_ it tipped over to its side and its soul was sucked away into the ether. All that was left was bone.

Alistair woke screaming.  
———————❖———————

  
Cullen could usually stomach two hours of sleeping before it was too much for him. Tonight, he had lasted nearly three and for it he felt strangely energized. Still, he fought back the urge to go and be productive and instead sat in bed with a book, the stars shining in from the roof for company. He was in the middle of learning about the best parrying maneuvers when he felt Alistair stiffen beside him. A nightmare, likely about darkspawn of some kind. Perhaps even the terrible terror that Alistair and Fiona had been so adamant about happening at some point.

He waited, unsure of the hazards of waking up a warden so deeply entrenched, and instead tried to make sense of the mutterings coming from Alistair’s mouth. Quite quickly such whispered rose to a crescendo, ending in fully fledged screams of fear.

Enough was enough, no one deserved to live in the Void that his lover was currently fighting through.

Cullen grasped at his shoulders, pinning Alistair to the bed along with soft murmurs. When that didn’t work, his tone turned harsher. “Alistair, you’re in Skyhold. It’s 2 in the morning. You’re safe, I promise you.”

Alistair shook his head violently and scraped his nails against the sheets. The edges of sleep still stuck to his mind and he obviously couldn’t shake them. “It didn’t talk. When we killed the archdemon, it didn’t talk.

Cullen loosened his grip. He wasn’t there when the archdemon was battled and fell, he wasn’t even in Ferelden by that time, but he had heard the stories. Some from the soldiers who had survived, but none from those who had fought it until its bitter end. Alistair never spoke of it, Cullen never asked. He had a scar on his side, faded but shaped differently than a normal sword injury, the edges puckered and still raised after all this time. Cullen had questioned after it once, running his fingers along the flesh. ‘The archdemon’s jaw,’ Alistair had answered. Cullen didn’t need to know more details to draw a viable conclusion.

“You fought it over a decade ago. It is long gone, darling.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t haunt me. We didn’t destroy it, not really. You didn’t really destroy Corypheus either. We simply misplaced our monsters.” He wouldn’t make eye contact and instead took to staring at the hole in the ceiling.

“You cannot think of this as more than a dream, Alistair, or else you’ll drive yourself insane.”

Alistair shook his head, even managed to laugh between gulping breaths. “My dreams are never just dreams. How am I supposed to tell the difference? It…said things. Things I didn’t know.”

“Are they things you can find the answers to?”

Alistair nodded. “Maybe.”

“Then come morning, we look for the answers. If they are wrong, it was merely a bad dream. Mine are often of events that happened but are slightly warped, it’s not uncommon.”

“And if they’re right?”

Cullen gave pause. “For the sake of your health, let’s consider them false until proven otherwise.”

  
———————❖———————

  
“So,” Bull walked backwards at a solid trot.

“So…”

“You’re a Reaver now. Like me.”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Sort of. In all honesty, my blood is such a mix of things that I’m starting to sound like one of those characters Varric makes up for his books.”

“Yeah, you’re a weird one alright. I won’t debate that. I’ve never fought against another Reaver before. Could be fun.”

Alistair hesitated, torn between telling Bull the long winded truth or simply agreeing. He still felt like a trampled on nug. It was obvious to all parties involved that his body hadn’t exactly made a finite decision concerning which type of taint it favored; the nightmare certainly hadn’t helped.

“If I spar with you right now, Cullen will kill me. It’s a miracle he’s letting me work as much as I am.”

“Aw, c’mon Warden-Commander. Don’t you wanna feel what it’s like to go berserk?”

“To be honest? Not particularly. I’m pretty sure you’ll have to lug me back over your shoulder the second you strike me.”

“That bad, huh?” Bull asked, the teasing dropping from his voice. Mostly.

“Yeah. That bad. Was it not like this for you?”

“Nope. Not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I got fucked up, and there’s a solid few day period where you gotta wait to see if you’re dying or not.” He paused. “Okay, so maybe it was pretty bad in retrospect. But I was a dumb kid and thought myself invincible at the time. I mean, didn’t you think the same back when you joined the Grey Wardens?”

Alistair snorted. “Oh, no. See, this is the bit where I give away Warden secrets and then get an extremely cross letter from the First. Again. So to sort of answer your question: No. I didn’t really think of myself as invincible. But anything was better than being a Templar and that was my only other option. Dropping out of the Order right before you make your vows isn’t really a thing people do.”

“But you did.”

“Well, I got conscripted since the Chantry wouldn’t let me leave. But if given the choice, I would have left. Maker, I wouldn’t have even joined to begin with.”

“That’s fair. I don’t really see you as the whole ‘Holier than Thou’ type anyway. I mean, you kick ass, there’s no doubt about that. Whether they did a pretty decent job training you or you’re naturally that good, I can’t say. I bet in Reaver mode, you could even beat up.”

“I’m not sparring with you, Bull.”

“Please, Ali? C’mon, have some fun!”

Something on Alistair’s face must have clued the Iron Bull in as suddenly the smirk was wiped off his face and replaced with far more of a passive look. “What happened?”

Alistair rubbed his sword arm. It felt sore, like he really had fought off a demon last night. “Is being a Reaver a trait that can be passed on?”

“What do you mean? To children? Nah, it doesn’t really work like that. The Qunari would be all over it if it could. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Is that another magical Warden thing?”

“Not that I know of. Wardens usually can’t have children. The taint does something to make us all barren, or very close to it. In fact, I’ve never met a child of a Warden who was born after their parent joined.”

“Shit,” Bull sighed. “That’s a big thing in the South. I guess they’ll be no little Alistair running around then?”

That made Alistair snort. Maker, the mental image alone of Anora’s face almost made him want to try. “Who knows.” To completely discount it was a fool’s errand, as stranger things had happened. Magic would have to be involved either way, as he rather liked Cullen and would rather not dump him for some random noble’s daughter.

“Hey, if you don’t want to fight, why don’t we go have a drink? You look like you could use one.”  
Alistair could use a whole few bottles, but it probably wasn’t the wisest of ideas. “Maker, as much as I would love that, it’s probably not a great idea.”

“Alright, then just to hang out with me and the Chargers. Your mind is going around in Circles, I can tell. C’mon, we always love new people who will listen to our old bullshit.”

It did sound nice, sitting there and having nothing to do. He could use the noise. “Okay, okay. You win.”

“You say that as if I don’t always win,” Bull winked. Or at least Alistair thought he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon blooded child, you kill the very thing you may revive.[1]
> 
> Yes, I indeed used the Elder Scrolls dragon language. Yes, it is no doubt so so so so terribly translated. Yes, I did my best not to use the word 'dovahkiin,' even tho it hurt my poor heart.


End file.
